Searching for Hope: Life at a Failing School in the Heart of America

1. Why Are You Here?

+ + + 1 WHY ARE YOU HERE? It was August 12, 2009, the first day of the school year, and I was already late. My plan was to walk through the front doors of Manual High School by 7:00 am so that I could be there thirty minutes before the morning bell. I wanted to see what the students looked like as they entered the school and officially ended their summer vacations. Were they excited? Were they depressed? What did they have to say about the next nine months of their lives? But as I raced to the school, the clock in my nine-year-old Honda Accord showed that I was several minutes behind schedule. Just like when I was in high school, I thought to myself. Late as always. My drive took me through the pride of Indianapolis, its compact but thriving downtown, and by the many office buildings that house the capital city’s top lawyers and lobbyists. I drove past Conseco Fieldhouse, home to the nba’s Indiana Pacers, and then past the headquarters of the city’s largest and most important employer, the pharmaceutical giant Eli Lilly and Company. Finally I entered the city’s near south side. Just three minutes from downtown, the com- 2 searching for hope munity is full of old and intermittently abandoned homes, depressed neighborhoods , and the occasional graffiti-scarred building or empty lot. The area used tobevibrant—longago,thatis.Thesedaysit’snotthecity’sworstneighborhood. It doesn’t have the worst crime rate. The neighborhood actually has many residents who still care, and other parts of the city have seen worse deterioration. But the neighborhood is hurting. In many ways it’s just hanging on. Manual High School was once the gem of the near south side; it was a school known for its sports programs, its curriculum, and the city and civic leaders it produced. Four decades ago it was the dream destination of many young education students eager to launch a teaching career. Four decades ago families were proud to send their children to Manual. That was a long time ago. On this morning Manual was beginning another academic year with its reputation firmly in place as one of the state’s worst-performing schools. There were few signs to suggest a turnaround would be coming, even though the state was finally beginning to demand one. Manual’s failures were so entrenched and profound that it was one of twenty-three Indiana schools the state was threatening to take over. Like many once-stellar city schools from coast to coast, Manual’s glory was found largely in its distant past. By a bit after seven o’clock the parking lot was filling with cars and buses, and students who lived nearby were wandering onto the grounds from different directions. A few students stood on a median in the middle of Madison Avenue, waitingtocrossthesometimes-busy streetthatrunsinfrontoftheschool.They were easy to spot in their mandated uniforms of khaki or black slacks and red, white, or black shirts. The students laughed and talked with one another, and as I approached the school I wondered how teenagers from one of the city’s most poverty-ridden areas would react to a balding, reserved thirty-nine-year-old journalist bugging them for information about their school, their lives, their dreams, their futures, and their struggles. It would be a challenge. But I had spent a career bugging people for information, and I’d been in tougher locales than this, so I wasn’t too worried. The entryway just beyond Manual’s front doors was quiet when I walked in. I didn’t see anyone in the hallways that ran to my left and right. The library in frontofmewasempty.Themainofficewasstill.Wherewaseveryone?“Youlook lost,” a husky voice declared. I turned and saw Jill Haughawout, one of Manual’s veteran teachers. Tall, blonde, and loud, she asked me if I needed help. I said I did and asked why the school was so quiet. “It’s never quiet here,” she said. “The noise is just somewhere else. The action’s in the gym today. Follow me.” I did Why are you here? 3 as ordered, making small talk with Haughawout as the heels she later told me she rarely wore clicked on the school’s hard floors. She said the students were in the gym getting their schedules and other paperwork. Haughawout...