Good day, CharterFolk.
I confess, last week’s CharterFolk Chat with Marlon Marshall stuck with me.
Yes, the parts about the incredible personal journey he’s been on — from growing up in St. Louis, to working at the highest levels of public service in the White House, to his leadership now at City Fund — Marlon’s story is a remarkable one.
And the parts that overlap with the issues I care most about: the legacy of unfairness in public education, and how we continue, even now, to suppress the emergence of educational excellence — reserving better opportunity for those with means, and lesser opportunity for those without.
And of course, his wise counsel throughout: that we have a huge opportunity during this period of great upheaval to make real progress for kids.
But the part of the conversation that stuck with me most?
Esther Marshall.
A lifelong teacher in St. Louis, she was someone who watched out for all her students — someone who saw the potential in every child, and who recognized when a student needed something different. For one student in particular, she understood that a new kind of learning experience was needed, so she encouraged her to apply to one of the schooling options that had opened up to city kids during the integration efforts of the 1980s and ’90s. That student followed her advice and enrolled in a suburban high school.
And who should she run into there?
Marlon himself — who had secured admission to that same school because his father worked in the district.
It turned out to be a school that changed the trajectory of their lives.
Now, decades later, Marlon’s Mom is on Facebook, staying in touch not only with that student Marlon met in high school, but with many others she taught over the years — still part of their lives, still showing up for them, as has become her custom across decades of service in public education.
It was a story I continued to reflect on throughout what turned out to be a remarkable weekend.
Longtime CharterFolk readers may remember a post I wrote in 2021 about Yuridia Frausto, a former student of mine who tracked me down through CharterFolk.
We’ve stayed in touch since then, and last weekend I flew down to Los Angeles for a long-overdue reunion with her, four of her classmates from our 5th grade class, and a teacher from my Hooper Avenue days.
The students came with pictures.
And stories.
Memories of funny things that happened in class.
Art projects we worked on.
Field trips we took.
I swear when the dolphins surrounded us on our way to Anacapa Island, the kids were so excited I feared some might go right over the railing!
The programs the kids designed for Amy’s and my wedding.
There were stories, too, of later celebrations and triumph — weddings, childbirths, homes purchased.
And of heartbreak and challenge, as well — surviving serious health scares, enduring family separations due to immigration struggles, nearly giving up on school more than once.
What served as a steady source of resilience through it all were the friendships they had forged in elementary school.
Friendships strong enough to help two earn associate degrees, to help two others complete bachelor’s degrees, and to support another who now plans to return and finish her degree — she told me she expects to graduate in a couple of years and that I’d better be there.
Of course I said yes.
It was, in sum, a bundle of stories very much like the one Marlon shared about meeting his Mom’s former student in high school:
The educations we receive ultimately change the trajectory of our lives.
As the gathering came to a close, Claudia Granados Merchán and I were able to steal a quiet moment together.
We had started as first-year teachers in the summer of ’93. The principal who hired us told us that Hooper Avenue Elementary was the largest elementary school in the United States — more than 2,300 students when we arrived. It didn’t take long to realize that the school was so big that students were being re-shuffled and dispersed into different classrooms every year, making it nearly impossible for them to build close friendships.
A similar constant reshuffling amid Hooper’s hugeness made it hard for teachers to form meaningful relationships with colleagues, too.
Eventually, a group of us young teachers convinced the administration to let us try something new: we created a small school within the school, a place where students and teachers could stay together over time — where relationships could deepen and endure.
What we lacked in experience, we made up for with commitment and enthusiasm for the work. For years, I’ve thought about how test scores went up — clearly, the kids were learning far more once our school within a school was established.
But this weekend, it finally clicked in.
Probably the most important thing we did was create a context in which friendships could grow.
And endure.
And serve as a point of support for one another decades later.
Perhaps the greatest testament to the contribution we made was the simple fact that the kids we served have stayed in contact to this day — and were motivated enough to come back together to reminisce about old times with the educators who helped draw it all together.
I ended up staying at the school for seven years before deciding to take on the same challenges in public education from a different vantage point — a decision that led to a quarter century of work in the charter school movement, and a deep sense that I’m only getting started.
And Claudia?
She’s still there at Hooper Avenue — 32 years later.
She pulled out her phone and in a matter of minutes scrolled me through the connections she has maintained on social media. Connections with everyone across decades — teachers, kids, past administrators.
Just like Marlon’s mom.
Remembering the potential in every student — and in every educator too.
CharterFolk, the charter school movement is now well into its fourth decade.
And I sense we’re becoming wise enough to truly understand what Marlon’s Mom and Claudia live out every day:
That the connections we make — both with the people we serve, and with the people we have the privilege to serve alongside — are what ultimately sustain us.
And, in the end, are what define the difference that we make.
Thus, like young teachers once sensing the excessive hugeness that surrounded them, we forge on.
Attempting to draw folk just a little bit closer together.
On we go.