Doubts emerge in school experiment
Donoghue wants parents and kids in the building around the clock, and Jones is committed to being there, even if means fighting rush-hour traffic from her job as circulation manager at the Oak Park Public Library.
The school is open daily until 6 p.m., with dance, arts and homework help for kids. Most of the nine boys and 16 girls in Room 206 stay, logging nearly 10-hour days at the school. Donoghue is also planning exercise classes, book clubs and other seminars for parents and families.
The mood is festive as Jones, a round 33-year-old with a feathered bob, finds Amare in the library.
Jones is in no mood to celebrate.
She's upset about bad behavior she's seen. When she picks Amare up after school, she spots kids in the office, sent there for fighting. The other day, Amare came home with a bloody welt.
"It's in the classroom, after school," Jones says over the din in the library, which has no books yet. "Why did [their parents] waste time applying to get here? If they're going to act the way they did at their old schools, why come here?"
She knows Amare isn't perfect. Amare acted up for a spell last year, and there were discipline problems at her old Aurora school. But it's far worse in Amare's third-grade class at Donoghue.
Jones also worries some poorer kids may not be adjusting well.
"They don't necessarily have the worst behavior, but maybe they're coming from a place with lower expectations," Jones says.
The academics at Donoghue -- when they aren't interrupted -- are plenty challenging for Amare, and she finally has black girlfriends. Jones says she believes the staff will do all it can to check the behavior problems.
But she fears it won't be enough.
"It scares me because it's wasting educational time, and some are coming from a place where they're already behind," Jones says.
Equator Howard, Empress' mom, is in the main lobby, discussing the "girl power" group Empress will soon start with the social worker.
Though she lives nearby, Howard says she hasn't been to school much because she's busy caring for her aging mother, grandkids and her other children.
In the last few weeks, Empress has begun picking on weak classmates. Howard passes off Empress' "little tiffs" as "just a part of life."
Still, she praises the school for getting ahead of a problem and pushing her daughter academically.
"I have nine kids, and I need help!" she says lightheartedly. "And the earlier they work on it, the better."
She goes on approvingly about the homework Empress has each day and proudly notes how Empress saved up to buy two books that evening.
"So far, I'm getting everything I was hoping for," says Howard, flashing a broad smile.
The first third-grade suspensions have been doled out.
Makela Howard and another Room 206 student were banished one day for fighting.
Today is their first day back.
Before school, Room 206 teacher Natalie Brady met with Makela's mother, Nicole Brooks.
Brooks is bowled over by the help from Brady, who sends notes home and repeatedly tries to call a home phone that is rarely connected. She didn't find that at her old school, Doolittle, where Makela also acted out. Brooks also admits she has been too busy with school and work to help Makela much at home.
Once class begins, Makela gets right to work. With her playful veneer stripped away, it's clear how far behind she is.
At the guided reading instruction table, Makela's group tries It's Spring!, a book with just 25 to 30 simple words per page about birds, rabbits and flowers. They're in the lowest group, reading first-grade books.
Amare's group has chapter books that average 150 to 200 words a page. Last week, they read about kids on the trail of a UFO. Empress' group, the most advanced, has books with well over 200 words per page.
The kids in Makela's group take turns reading out loud. Makela reads haltingly, her face a storm of emotion.
She loses it when she stumbles over the word "trotting."
"I don't know how to read," Makela says, large tears stream down her round face.
Brady has been thinking hard about which kids are causing trouble.
A few poor kids interrupt instruction, but two of her biggest troublemakers are middle-class.
There's Justyn, whose mom has a college degree. Another girl, whose mother also has a degree and a professional job, knows just which students to needle to cause a fight. She hasn't progressed academically.
Several middle-class kids were stars at their old schools and likely got a pass when it came to bad behavior, Brady thinks. Their parents moved them in the hopes of making a fresh start.
"I've been a screaming machine," Brady says after a particularly rough morning. "I don't want them to yell, so I don't want to yell. I get so worked up, and there is so much to do, especially with them," she says, motioning to Makela's reading group.
Still, there are signs of progress.
The kids come alive when it's their turn for guided reading. And after nearly three months, every student except one has moved up at least one reading level. The goal is to jump at least three levels in a year.
"I'm not sure I'll close the gap, but I hope everyone moves up," Brady says. "I'm starting to think I can help kids on both ends."
But to get there, the burdens keep piling on.
She plans to give Makela extra math materials, and she has begun meeting with the lowest reading group daily. In January, a part-time literacy coach will become full-time and will meet with Brady's lowest group several times a week.
In addition, Brady hopes to start grouping kids by ability in math, meeting weekly with the lowest group. On the high end, she promises Aleigha special materials.
The extra care helps bring two middle-class parents around.
"They're stepping up to the plate like they said they would," Leigha Groves, Aleigha's mother, said over coffee in late November on a day off from her job as a police officer. Her husband, Aleigha's stepdad, does auditing and installing for a cable company.
Groves has thrown herself into school life. She joined parent committees and began volunteering in the classrooms. She visited Room 206 during guided reading. Groves, a college grad, walked away impressed.
And Joslyn Jones says Amare gets more individual attention and homework than at her old school.
Most nights, they go over it in their sparsely furnished rental in a new, three-story brick building in Kenwood. They sit on stools in their-state of-the-art kitchen or on a brown leather couch facing a Hewlett-Packard computer.
Amare is challenged by the U. of C. Everyday Math curriculum, which emphasizes problem-solving and daily applications over rote learning. And her mother, also a college grad, likes the 30 minutes of required reading each night.
And Brady -- whom Jones ranks as Amare's best teacher so far -- has laid out Amare's weaknesses early in the year.
Amare, it turns out, is half a grade level behind in reading and math. She's not at the top of the class.
"It makes me question what we've been doing the past two years," a shaken Jones says after hearing the news during a conference at the school. "Apparently we're not as up to snuff as we thought we were."
Maybe, just maybe, I've bought into stereotypes about poor kids, Jones says.
"A lot of parents here are used to being on the hustle. They make the extra effort," she says. "I've been so obsessed with the behavior, but we have catching up to do."
On a frigid Monday night, with the temperature hovering in the teens, third-grade parents and kids pile into the school's library to hear from Nicole Woodard Iliev, Donoghue's director.
By March report cards, students must reach reading level 10, beginning third grade. If not, it's off to summer school.
Just five of Brady's 25 students are there now.
Empress is within reach, at a nine.
Amare is close. She's an eight.
Makela, who started as a three -- high kindergarten -- has moved up to a five.
Donoghue's two third-grade rooms have more kids significantly below level than any other grade in the building. They also fight, disobey and get in trouble the most.
These kids are the school's oldest, hopefully the school's leaders, Woodard Iliev tells parents. They have to do better, the serious young director says, and the school will do its part. She asks parents for their help, and several offer suggestions.
But even at the meeting, kids are disruptive, and many parents ignore it, several people present said.
It is enough to stir Jones' shaky confidence in the school.
Earlier that day, Amare was sent to the office for refusing to do an assignment. Brady chalked it up to pre-holiday excitement, which Jones thought was too lenient. She wonders if the school's expectations are just too low.
She's thinking about moving Amare to one of Chicago's magnet schools.
"Donoghue is a work in progress, and I don't know how it's going to clean up at the end," Jones says.
The pattern in Room 206 is set.
"You have three seconds to get to your centers and close your mouths," Brady declares on this sunny, 30-degree Tuesday in early February.
Six students sit before her for a spelling test. The rest are scattered around the room at literacy centers -- reading on their own, reading along to a book on tape or working on a computer.
Over the next 20 minutes, instead of paying exclusive attention to her group, Brady physically forces one student to sit by himself on the floor, banishes two boys goofing off to their desks and jots down the names of two other troublemakers for lost recess time.
When it's time to switch centers, she sternly warns her kids to get it done in one minute.
Success.
But it's short-lived. The interruptions continue, forcing Brady to cut a math activity short. She then spends five minutes lining up her rowdy third-graders for lunch.
On Feb 19, Justyn's mother, Nicole Miller, calls moving her son from a magnet school "the biggest mistake."
Miller likes the academics, but Justyn is "hanging out with the quote unquote bad boys, and he's picking up their bad behavior," said Miller, who recently landed a better-paying job as a public aid case manager. In June, she's marrying a man who does computer work for Cook County.
The troublemakers come from a range of economic backgrounds, she says, and she knows Justyn shares in the blame. The school takes her concerns seriously, she says, but she still thinks it isn't tough enough on misbehaving kids.
Even kids who were once reliably good are getting in on it.
Since November, Empress' "little tiffs" have grown in frequency. She hoards her materials and lashes out if she feels anyone has wronged her.
On Feb. 6, she hit two students -- one who she says hit her first. "I had the right to hit her like my mother told me," Empress explains to Brady.
And in early February, Amare hit a boy to defend a friend and faced suspension.
A week later, when Jones checked her voice mail, she could barely believe her ears.
In December, Brady had honored Amare for the greatest improvement in reading. Now, she isn't trying on spelling tests, is handing in sloppy homework and constantly leaving the room without permission.
"I never had such a horrible message in my life," Jones says. "I was like, 'Who is this kid?'"
For months, Natalie Brady has soldiered on.
She arrives daily at 7:30 a.m. and stays until dark, talking to parents and prepping for the next day.
But her heart is no longer in it.
She decided over winter break to quit teaching when school ends in June.
"I've reached the point where I don't want to give more than I'm getting back," Brady explains, her long, pale face looking worn. "I don't think the idea is to give until I'm empty."
There is a pull from home: She only sees her 10-month-old son two hours a day.
But there is also a push.
She longs to do projects, to follow the kids' interests. Instead, she feels boxed in and uninspired by what she sees as a rigid structure chosen by the U. of C. to reach kids at varying academic levels.
Her day is largely laid out for her: guided reading and the literacy centers in the morning and U. of C. Everyday Math in the afternoon. And in March, the centers will be replaced with new, largely scripted reading and writing activities for kids to do independently.
She's reaching both ends of the academic spectrum, but it's taking its toll. One day last week, she spent 28 minutes teaching her kids to walk properly in the halls.
"We're still working on the basics," she says Feb. 22 as she nibbles on cold pizza, trying to put back on the 10 pounds stress took off her already slimframe.
It's report card day, and Brady, looking relaxed for the first time in months, waits for parents at the half-moon guided reading table.
Most parents adore Brady -- she knows their kids with an intimacy and care most haven't seen in a teacher.
Still, most arrive with some trepidation.
Sixteen of Brady's 25 kids aren't at grade level and will likely go to summer school. In December, 20 were at risk of going.
Summer school is a given for Makela, but she has already grown by more than a year in both reading and math.
She still stumbles over unfamiliar words, and her comprehension is spotty. But Makela, who constantly asks for harder books, now digs in with confidence when asked to read aloud.
But she is still one of Brady's most disruptive. She has been suspended twice since January.
When it's Amare's turn, she walks in sheepishly, flanked by mom and dad, Joslyn and Jason Jones. The group also met three weeks earlier.
Her behavior is getting better, Brady begins, but it's still hurting her academically. If she pulls herself together, she can probably make grade level in reading by year's end.
Joslyn feverishly jots down what Amare must improve: reading speed, spelling, an end to messy homework. She says Amare also has been difficult at home.
Brady asks the Joneses to sign a form, indicating whether Amare will return for fourth grade.
Joslyn hesitates.
She's thinking about moving to Oak Park: "The schools are excellent, and I won't be running so much" between work and school, she says. "And I think a lot of Amare's behavior problem is because of her peers -- they're wild!"
"But she was wild in Aurora, too," Jason shoots back. For several months last spring, Amare often refused to follow instruction and was put out of class several times."At some point, she has to get better and get focused, and we have to do our part."
With tensions high, Brady calls a truce.
As they leave, Brady gives the girl, whose mouth quivers as she fights back tears, a hug.
Later, Joslyn is still fuming. Amare follows the crowd, and Jones doesn't like what she's picking up at Donoghue. Since enrolling, she uses more street talk -- "I be here," "where she live at?" -- and the other day, she told her mom she didn't like white people.
When Equator Howard arrives to pick up Empress' report card on March 16, a gray, 35-degree Thursday, she learns Empress is one of Brady's hardest-working kids, one of just nine students who don't have to attend summer school.
But Empress hasn't made student of the month -- an honor Empress has coveted all year -- because of her temper. She doesn't interrupt instruction much, but she is bossy, uses foul language and harps on kids' weaknesses.
Equator Howard nods quietly as Brady fills her in.
Empress developed a tough exterior, her mom explains, as the youngest of nine kids, on the streets and at her old school.
"At [Chicago Public Schools], you have to fight all the time -- on your way to school, to get your pencil. It's a mode of survival," says Howard, who has squeezed into a tiny blue chair before Brady.
"That's why this is an excellent school for Empress. It's a neutral environment."
Together, they set a goal: No temper flare-ups means Empress will make student of the month.
It was a hard meeting for Howard, she says later, while helping Empress with her homework. Most days, Equator tries to check Empress' homework. If she can't help, she calls one of her daughters orher niece, who is a teacher.
Though she took it without complaint, Brady's criticism stung.
Empress must be tough to survive in her world -- something she doesn't think Brady gets.
"She don't understand Empress because she don't come from this environment," she says, pointing out the window from her seventh-floor apartment near 40th and Lake Park, three blocks south of the school. Like Donoghue, the apartment is in Oakland, ranked as Chicago's poorest neighborhood in 2000.
Bit by bit, the area has improved over the last decade. And over the last 18 months, the stretch between Empress' apartment and Donoghue has changed dramatically.
Just south and west of the school, Oakwood Shores, the new mixed-income development that is replacing Chicago Housing Authority projects, is taking shape.
Antique lamp posts now line the streets where eight $535,000, single-family homes are nearing completion. About 200 rental apartments in brick three-story buildings with arches and decorative brickwork are now occupied.
The decaying public housing eyesores across from the school are gone. A huge empty lot, dotted with graceful tress once hidden amid the CHA projects, is now primed for more Oakwood Shores buildings.
But two blocks west, dilapidated public housing buildings remain, and addicts still congregate in a nearby park.
In December, Empress and Equator moved from public housing near the school to a subsidized apartment. Inside, it's clean and fairly modern, with little furniture. To get the elevator moving, veteran tenants know to jump several times. Outside, the grass is strewn with litter, and teenage boys congregate as night falls.
"I want Empress to be tough; she has to be," Howard continues. "I want her to be able to walk around here and be safe."
But she also wants her to move freely in whatever world she chooses -- and if that means being nice, Empress will do it.
Howard readily admits she's not the best role model. She also has a sharp tongue, but tempering it is a goal of her drug addiction recovery.
Together, mother and daughter will try to change, she says.
But it can only go so far.
"You have to be nice," Howard says. "But you also have to know how to survive."