Improving school for the most vulnerable children

In the most difficult circumstances, when people look at you and all they see is something horrible, there must be space to tell your own story; a chance to tell that story in a way that other people can hear; a way to make that story real together. 

For a decade, our team has worked in Oakland with groups of young people most vulnerable to being mis-seen or unseen in school. Working hand in hand with educators and youth groups, we created a platform for children to introduce or reintroduce themselves to an adult in school who could support them in their learning and growth. This approach draws on the trust and belonging work that helped tweens forecast and then build better relationships with teachers. It incorporates the empathic-discipline work too, in that it seeks to help teachers get back to who they really want to be with their kids. But it integrates these into a single coherent experience for both students and teachers. It's a way for children to speak and adults to hear, setting the stage for a better relationship. It is the single most powerful approach I know to remedy mistrust in school. 

More than that: "I'm happy to support. I'm ready to get started." 

In years of work, Rhana Hashemi has come face-to-face with the challenges educators have working with kids with substance use issues. One principal in Oakland, a friend of Hashemi's, told her that he'd just about had it with kids smoking weed in school. An African American man and a dedicated educator, he himself had smoked weed on occasion as a teenager. All he wanted, really, was for kids to do what they would do – just not at school. Just go up the damn street! he thought. But nothing he did or said seemed to work. When a child who'd been caught with drugs sat in his office, he told Hashemi that, honestly, he didn't know what to say. Yelling and cracking down wouldn't help. He knew that. But what else was there? His frustration was boiling. 

Hashemi knew from her own experience, and from her interviews with young people in Oakland, the devastation a punitive approach could bring. The feeling of being "a bad kid," of "always and forever" being "a drug-dealing, drug-addicted high school dropout." Of being thrown away. She'd seen administrators give up. Once another principal bragged to Hashemi that he'd "cleared the boys out," expelling a group of teens with substance use issues, even as they were also taking steps to lead drug education efforts in school. She shared that news with me in a text with a single teardrop emoji. 

So when Hashemi came to graduate school at Stanford, one of her goals was to restore trust between students caught with drugs and educators. It was thrilling, then, early one morning in January 2024 when she sent me a text with a bull's-eye emoji. For Hashemi was seeing the spiral begin to reverse. 

Earlier that week she'd given an assistant principal in Oakland a one-page letter introducing a student who'd been caught with drugs. The principal said he was "moved" by the letter and that he felt a "sense of pride and responsibility to a young person who identified me as a support." He anticipated that his relationship with the student would "grow," and he shared that already he and the student had "agreed to regular check-ins." This principal was not "clearing out" another "bad kid." He was opening his arms and pulling a child closer, ready to partner with a teen facing a challenge. This was a day to begin. I immediately texted Hashemi back a big red heart emoji. 

It was only the latest extraordinary response. That fall, Hashemi had come bounding into my office to report that a second educator had "literally jiggled with joy" when she'd delivered another letter regarding a drug-using student. A third responded, "[I] loved receiving the letter," said that it "helped me realize that the work I am doing is actually effective," and that it "makes me feel more confident that they would like me to be a mentor in their lives, and there to support them. I felt happy and wanted to make sure to support them more." 

What was this letter? How did this happen? What magic words could transform frustration and dread into inspiration and opportunity? 

To answer these questions, I need to take you back to where it all began. For Rhana Hashemi is only one of a long line of innovative social psychologists, educators, and young people determined to get this right. To fully understand how a single sheet of paper can work ordinary magic into the lives of children too close to the edge, I need to take you back to the woman who inspired it all. 

Lifting the bar: "I'm a good kid" 

It was late in the fall of 2014, just a few weeks after Oliver was born, that I first met Ms. Hattie Tate. Today I think of Ms. Tate as an extraordinary educator, partner, and mentor. She's a woman I deeply admire, a person of great warmth, courage, and wisdom. She ends every meeting, no matter how difficult a situation or an interlocutor, by saying, "I look forward to our success." And she means it. For sometimes it takes faith that things can improve. Faith even when there's no justification yet. That faith, I've learned, is not optional. 

Tate grew up in Oakland and is a proud graduate of the Oakland schools. She'd left a career in business to teach and then to serve as a principal in the district. By 2014, she'd become a leader in the district's efforts to support youth caught up in the juvenile justice system. That November she gave Jason Okonofua, Jennifer Eberhardt, and me a tour of the Juvenile Justice Center in Alameda County. That's where kids in Oakland are sent if they get in trouble with the law. It was her job to help children return to school in Oakland successfully. 

The justice center is a beautiful facility. It sits up on a hill, just a few exits down 580 from the Oakland Zoo. It has million-dollar views over the San Francisco Bay. Inside, it feels safe and secure. There's even a dentist's office for when kids need cleanings. Yet on that tour I saw children in cages, their hands hanging through bars or reaching out. I learned that if you acted out while in detention, a punishment could be a "no-contact visit" with your parents. With baby Oliver at home, that was very hard for me. A child might not get a hug from his or her mom or dad. 

As I saw that space, I remembered that awful language from the 1990s, "superpredator." I knew viscerally the stereotypes these kids would face in school. But walking through the building with Ms. Tate, I saw the love – the love – that she showed every child. It was in her greeting, in her hug. And I saw, in her eyes, the faith in every child's essential goodness, in their potential. 

With Tate's support, our team spent fifteen months interviewing young people in schools and through youth groups in Oakland. We asked children about experiences in the justice system, in the community, and in schools. We learned a great deal about their community, their goals and values. More than one child told me of seeing a friend get shot by the age of eleven. I knew those who'd been locked up had all gotten caught up in something. But I also heard stories of who they wanted to be, the places they wanted to go, the good they wanted to do. 

Sometimes, when we asked children about their experiences in school, with teachers, they became quiet. They'd mumble. I'd lean in, just to catch a word or two. I could feel the pain. For this is a group for whom trust has been broken. These children have been told, more or less definitively, that they do not belong in school, that they are not wanted: "troublemaker," "violent," "out of control," "doesn't care," "thug." Will anyone support me? Am I a "bad kid"? Will I be seen as one? And I knew the questions teachers faced. A few years later, when we asked a teacher in a survey for her thoughts if a child entered her class from juvenile detention, she wrote, "First thoughts, in complete honesty, would be 'oh great' or 'why me.' I would think about what problems he may add to my class." Will they even try? Or will they just disrupt my class? 

But we knew the kids were more than that. Could we give them a platform to help a teacher see that too? 

Ultimately, with feedback from young people, we developed a 45-minute one-on-one experience for kids several days after they left the justice facility and returned to school. We call it "Lifting the Bar," because the goal is to lift the social and psychological bars that children face even after they return to school. 

The session begins with children reflecting on and sharing their personal values and goals in school. These are genuine values of inherent importance, like making your parents proud or being a good role model for a younger brother or sister. As one student wrote, "I wanna help and support my family because I know some of them need help (!!) It's important because I want the best for my little sister." Another child wanted to be a good role model "because you don't want your little brother or sister grow up to be going to jail in and out messing up their future."

Then we share stories from older students about their experiences returning to school after a time in juvenile detention. The stories are blunt about the difficulties of this transition, but they also describe how developing relationships with adults can help. Students then have the chance to share their advice for future students, how relationships with adults could help them make progress toward their goals in school, and what students can do to build these relationships (saying is believing). This portion borrows from the trust and belonging exercise. 

At the end, we give students a platform. We ask them to name an adult in school who isn't yet but could be an important source of support for them. We ask them what they would like this adult to know about who they are as a person: what is important to them, their values, the goals they have in school, and what is hard for them that the adult could help with. 

Children's responses to these questions are the most moving expressions of vulnerability and hope I've seen in my career. They bring me to tears, every time. They're also practical. Students use this platform to describe their commitment to school, interests they have, and specific ways they would like support. One child wanted his sixth-grade math teacher "to know [that] I'm a good kid and likes to learn new things and like to have fun and I like talkin a lot," that his goals were "one to graduate from middle school [and] two is to not have any problems with no one," and that he wanted help with "turning in my homework" and "wearing [his] uniform or [not] sleeping in class." 

A second child wanted his teacher "to know that I care about make people happy. and that I respect them," that "[I] want them to know everything about my goals in life. I want them to know I'm for real," and he wanted their help because of "how bad I stink at read. How bad I am at computation." 

A third wanted his teacher to know "I'm a smart person when it comes to math but I haven't really been to school so it's kinda hard to focus," that his goals were "to graduate and go to college at LSU," and that he wanted help because "like some of the work in class I don't understand sometimes." 

Children are telling adults they care. They are asking adults to be a partner for them in their learning and growth. And they are showing adults where to begin. 

We told students we might be able to share these responses with one of the adults they had named. For a random group of students, we did share these introductions – in that one-page letter I mentioned earlier. The letter emphasizes that the child had chosen the adult specifically. It asks for their support, and it includes the child's self-introduction. For educators, it is honorific. It doesn't tell them to do anything in particular. There is no accountability; no specific requirements have to be met. It respects their professional expertise and their inherent motivation to support young people. It just asks them to reach out to the student soon. And it says thank you: "Teachers like you are on the front lines and are the most important people for the success of your students. Thank you for your work." It's a way to invite educators to bring their best self to bear for a student in need. In this first pass, when our research staff implemented the protocol, we put the letter on Stanford letterhead (what better use of the brand?). Today, as we work with district staff to incorporate the protocol in their work, we use joint Stanford and school district letterhead. Here's the full letter. 

THE LIFTING THE BAR LETTER 

Dear Mr./Ms. [teacher name], 

We hope that your school year is going well. 

Your student, [student name], decided to participate in a program to improve [his/her] transition back to school from the Juvenile Justice Center. As part of this program, students have the opportunity to identify an adult in school whom they would like to be a partner for them in this transition. As you know, one of the most important factors in any student's development is having a trusting and positive relationship with an adult in school. 

[Student name] would like for you to be this adult for them.

The transition back to school from the JJC is difficult for many students. Some days will be easier and some days will be harder. 

We hope that you will be able to be there for this student and to help [him/her] grow and overcome the challenges that [he/she] faces. We also hope that a strong relationship with you will help [student] develop better relationships with other teachers and have a better school experience as a whole. 

As part of our process, we asked [student name] what [he/ she] would like you to know about [himself/herself]. Here is what [he/she] said: 

• I'm a serious person about my school and graduating and play football, but I just have a problem catching up fast. 

• I want to have all A's or B's and I want to graduate and play college football. 

• I would like to help myself and get help from other people by understanding it one by one and growing slowly through the process. 

We encourage you to reach out and talk to [him/her] within the next week. For example, you could . . . 

At the end of the day, teachers like you are on the front lines and are the most important people for the success of [student name] and all your students. 

Thank you for your work, 

The Stanford University Lifting the Bar Project 

A 40 percentage-point reduction in recidivism 

In a first field trial in Oakland, there were three randomized groups. In the first, students completed control materials focused on study skills. In the second, students did the Lifting the Bar exercise, but we didn't share the letter. In the third, we delivered the letter. (Remember, we'd told everyone we might be able to share their responses with one of the adults they named.) 

Months later, we looked at our data. The question was simple: Would children be able to stick the landing and succeed in school? We tracked students in the semester in which they were released and through the next full academic term. In these months, fully 69 percent of children in the first group were sent back to juvenile detention. When students completed our exercise but the letter wasn't delivered, the outcome wasn't much better: 64 percent. Let's stop and take that in. This is where we are at baseline, and this is terrible. 

But when we delivered the letter to the teacher, students' risk of recidivism dropped to 29 percent. Nearly three in ten children still returned to juvenile detention. But that's a reduction of more than half. Another four in ten children who would have gone back to jail without the letter did not. With the letter, they were in school, where they could learn and make progress. 

Today, we see the impact of the letter in nearly every case. One teacher in Chicago Public Schools wrote that he was "proud and excited" to receive the letter, that he hoped "to support the student's academic and social-emotional well-being," and to help the student "build leadership, accountability, academic grit, and confidence." Asked to partner, this teacher stood up. 

In experimental studies, we have formally tested the impact of the letter for teachers. In one case, we asked nearly 350 experienced teachers to imagine a student coming back to class from juvenile detention, and randomized them to get the letter or not. Then we asked teachers what they would think, feel, and do. Remember that teacher who worried "why me" about a student joining her class from juvenile detention? She was actually a teacher in this study. But earlier, I gave you only the first part of her response. Here's the whole thing: 

First thoughts, in complete honesty, would be "oh great" or "why me." I would think about what problems he may add to my class. But, as I read more of the letter and see that [student name] CHOSE ME to be his mentor/confidant, I am immediately reminded that he is a child that has made some mistakes and wants to change. He deserves that chance and, if I can, I want to help. Reading about his passions made me see him more as a person than just another student with problems. 

You can feel her thinking begin to shift, a bias slip away, and a new, healthier, empowered, and positive stance begin to emerge. 

With that new perspective, that new way of seeing, small victories begin to stand out as progress to build upon, and small setbacks are less conspicuous, less ill omens. Teachers who got the letter saw the student as more committed to school, and felt more committed to them in turn. They were more confident the student could succeed. They were more eager to serve as a mentor, advocate, and guide for the student, to nominate the student for opportunities in school, to integrate them in class, and to build a positive relationship with them. They even felt more love and respect for a justice-involved youth. They were less likely to wonder what crime the child had committed, and less likely to leap to negative conclusions, to judge a student "a troublemaker" if, say, they fell asleep in class one day and refused to do their work. No longer were these kids "criminals." They were kids – kids with a future. And teachers were ready to do their part to make that future real. 

That stance transforms school. Hattie Tate describes Lifting the Bar this way: "A lot of that has to do with building positive adult relationships where students feel protected, listened to, cared for, and heard. All that feeds into a sense of belongingness, and feeling like this is where I can be successful. Someone here cares for me, someone here is guiding me, someone here is concerned about my success. It's focused on building a relationship between the person responsible for the academic learning and the learner." 

This initial field trial was just a pilot. There were only forty-seven children. We'll learn more from future studies, both with justice-involved youth and in adaptations for kids in other populations, including Rhana Hashemi's work with students with substance use issues. But there is a fundamental truth here: a truth about voice, about listening, and about "the day you begin." 

It's hard to overstate how important relationships are in school. It's not just Urie Bronfenbrenner. One ethnography concluded that the experience of "being known" by adults in school is "ordinary magic" for adolescents, given all the functions these relationships serve. Some of the barriers to improving relationships are structural. School and class sizes might be large, teaching loads high. There are only twenty-four hours in a day. But the most fundamental barriers, I think, are stereotypes – "dumb," "troublemaker," "doesn't care," "biased." These drive wedges between students and teachers. They predefine another person. They make us start not nice, and then we infer the worst. But when we see the questions stereotypes prompt, we can create tools that set them aside, with simplicity and grace. 

Lifting the Bar creates space for a young person to make themselves known to an adult who could matter for them. It assumes that students – all students – have good, prosocial goals, and they'll pursue these goals if only a teacher partners with them. And it assumes that teachers really want to help their students succeed, even students who are struggling, and that they'll do their best for every kid. With that space both people can start nice. That doesn't guarantee success. But it's the place to begin.