Parents

Several weeks ago, I was in Orlando to present at a conference for school administrators.  I asked them about their biggest stressor. “What exhausts you more than anything?”  I asked.

I wanted to know what makes principals feel ineffective— what interrupts their sleep at night, or what makes them feel they can't win, no matter how hard they try.  I handed them slips of paper to jot down their thoughts.

Their answers followed a very distinct pattern: Parents.

When a student walks into our school, their parents walk in, too—sometimes literally, walking right alongside—and there might be one, or two, three and four parents to contend with.  Maybe more.  They seem to take twice the space, both physically and emotionally, than their children do. 

Students are usually pretty happy to be at school, and they understand the expectations of the whole thing. But the things they carry from home, the words they hear over the dinner table about “the schools,” and the lessons they learn from their parents about relationships, work ethic, responsibility, self-advocacy, confidence, and hundreds of other human traits, can be traced directly to their parents.

Before going any further, it is important to note that “parents” is a term that has evolved over the decades, no longer necessarily defining a family unit as it did years ago.  Whether it is a school of 100 students or a school of 4,000 students, the “parents” to which I refer include traditional parents, grandparents, aunts or uncles, older siblings, neighbors, friends, and partners.  The terminology itself doesn’t matter for the purposes of this conversation, or, more broadly, for the purposes of educating the child, because the end point is the same:  We are accountable to these parents, regardless of the particular connection they have to the child.

It's also noteworthy that 99% of our parents are unfailingly, lovingly, and relentlessly supportive.  They understand we are best as a team.  They understand our intentions are good, and also know their knowledge of their child—how the child thinks, learns, and interacts—is important for us to know.  Most parents also acknowledge the longevity of an education journey, and don't lose their minds over isolated incidents or bumps along the way.

The other 1%, though—?  Well, it seems impossible to please them.  Every day brings some sort of phone call or email containing a complaint—the behavior of a teacher; our use (or lack of) social media; our communication practices; discipline decisions; use of resources; opportunities missed and opportunities squandered.  And every time it happens, it feels frightening in a unique and troublesome way, like we’ve done something wrong but can’t determine what it is. 

And the fear is legit. 

Many public schools depend on tax levies for necessary funds to keep our schools running, and are accountable to an elected Board, who is accountable to the public.  It’s a system that insists educators please parents.  To be successful, we need them to celebrate our mission and be grateful for their child’s school journey.  And if they’re not happy, consequences can reach pretty far—failed levies, fractured community relationships, a school system separated from its constituents.  Further, an angry parent can go rouge on social media or at community events, actively working to tarnish the personal and professional reputation of a school or teacher in incalculable ways that feel deeply unfair and impossible to address.   Worse, public schools have no defense against a slandering parent—public schools take all children, as the law requires them to do, and that means public schools also take all parents.  No questions asked.

Private schools face a different challenge, because their revenue is directly tied to enrollment, and enrollment is directly tied to parent satisfaction.  While private schools may have more autonomy in expelling a student, doing so is often damaging in immeasurable ways, and not only to the financial health of the school—after all, removing a student because his parent is impossible makes no sense if we are, at our core, advocates for the child.

While I have always prided myself in the relationships I build with parents of students at my school, I have certainly gotten kicked in the face more times than I’d like to admit.  I've experienced threats, slander, and a damaged reputation—among other things. 

Just last week, a previous parent raged on social media about how “the school” had refused to help her son (now graduated) through some reading struggles.  I was gobsmacked:  If she were referring to me and the teachers as “the school,” she was dead wrong; her son had extensive, intensive reading intervention services, and, from my memory, we’d all worked together beautifully to determine how to evaluate his learning difficulties and put an excellent plan in place to support him.  Our paperwork (including many documents she signed) indicated a flawless process of intervention, plans, and communication.

My computer in my lap and my mother's cozy quilt over my knees, I started at her Facebook post, no idea what to think.  She’d been fueled by other parents social media rants, I guess, and somehow was led to publicize an account that hadn’t actually occurred.

There is nothing more disheartening, both professionally and personally, than the feeling of being accused of wrongdoing regarding a child’s learning, of being blamed for things we did not do, of being negligent.

I didn’t reply to her post, though many other people did, and I’m sure the “you go girl” comments felt very validating to her. 

There is nothing we can control about what parents say and do.  But I’ve come to accept it, and along the way, I have learned a few things about building, maintaining, and utilizing my connections with parents. I feel good about making parents as partners in my school, giving them a voice while keeping my own philosophies intact.  A parent myself, I have frustrated or wronged, and developed a deeper level of listening and empathy when interacting with parents.  Best of all, I have learned what to do when I fail—when parental connections break or are truly irreparable—by staying steady, holding my head high, managing how much I obsess, and patiently waiting it out.  I don’t let parents crush my confidence or my mission.  I have, in many ways, found balance. 

This growth over time certainly doesn’t diminish the feeling in the gut that comes when a parent chooses to re-write the story.  But it let me stay steady.  Which, to me, is a victory.