When life takes away your greatest support, it can feel as if the world is falling apart. For me, losing my father as a child was more than heartbreaking. It was a true test of strength. Yet in a world that often seemed bitter, the kindness of strangers and the power of personal dreams helped me rise above my sorrow and shape a future full of hope.
My family and I live in the Eastern province of Rwanda. I was only five years old when one morning, my father packed his bag and left the house. He didn’t say where he was going and he never came back. Days turned into weeks, weeks into years, but there was no sign of him. No call. No letter. Nothing.
At first, I didn’t understand what was happening. I kept asking my mother, “When is Papa coming back?” But she would just smile sadly and say, “One day, maybe.”
In her heart, she knew he was not coming back.
Life changed quickly after that. Without a father and without money, things became hard for the family. My mother, Catherine, had no job. She had never worked outside the home before. Now, she had to take care of me and my four siblings alone.
Struggling with little
We had no house of our own. We moved from one place to another, staying with kind neighbors or sleeping in small, broken huts. During rainy nights, water would leak through the roof and we had to stay awake holding buckets. Sometimes, we didn’t even have enough food to eat. Many nights, we went to bed hungry.
My siblings were in high school at the time, but the family could not afford school fees anymore. One by one, they dropped out and stayed home. It was painful for me to watch them suffer. I loved them deeply and wanted a better life for all of them.
Despite everything, I stayed in school. My mother worked hard doing small jobs washing clothes, digging gardens or selling vegetables in the market. She never gave up. “You are our hope,” she would tell me. “Even if your father left, we must move forward.”
I listened. I promised myself that no matter how hard life became, I would not give up. I wanted to finish school, go to university and one day help my family live a better life.
But it was not easy.
Help can come from surprising places.
I often went to school with old shoes. I had no school bag only an old plastic bag to carry my books. I had no lunch and many times, I sat in class with an empty stomach. But still, I worked hard. I listened carefully, asked questions and always completed my homework, even if it meant studying by candlelight or by the dim light of a kerosene lamp.
Many teachers began to notice me. They saw that even though I had nothing, I had determination and a kind heart. One teacher gave me exercise books. Another helped pay part of my school fees. A neighbor who owned a small shop gave me a few snacks sometimes. A church group gave my mother food and clothes once in a while.
These acts of kindness kept me going.
I studied harder than anyone else and soon became the best performer in my class. Every year, I got top marks. My name was always on the honor list. At school, students looked up to me. But at home, things were still hard. My siblings had lost hope, but I kept believing in a better future.
After many years of struggle, I finally finished high school. I was the first in my family to do so. On the day I received my final results, my mother cried tears of joy. You did it, my son. You made me proud, she said, hugging me tightly.
But my journey wasn’t over.
I had one more goal: to go to university. That meant more fees, laptop, more books, more challenges, but I didn’t stop. I applied for scholarships and after many rejections, I finally got accepted to a university with some financial support.
Now, I’m 22 years old. I’m in university, studying hard every day. I met with a kind person again, who gave me a place to sleep and dinner. Even though I have that support, I’m still facing challenges. I still lack proper shoes, clothes and transport money, but I keep going. My dream is to become a professional, get a good job first, then become self-employed and return home to support my mother and siblings.
I remind myself: “My father left us when I was just a child. We had no house, no food and no money. My siblings could not finish school. But I decided to fight. Kind people helped me and I stayed strong. Now I am at university. I will not stop until I help my family rise again.”
I hope my story will teach young people that even when life feels bitter and people let you down, you must not give up. Strength is not about having everything. It is about standing tall even when you have nothing. This is the reason why I’m writing my story.
Even when life is painful and people walk away from you, never lose hope. With hard work, faith and the help of kind people, you can still rise, succeed and help others do the same.
QUESTIONS TO CONSIDER:
1. What was one thing the author promised himself when things got really hard for his family?
2. In what ways did people help the author succeed?
3. When have people helped you when you were having difficulty?
Around the world, Queer rights are being challenged, attacked and denied. Governments are cutting budgets for important health and other programmes.
But in parts of Africa, there are distinct signs of progress. Organizations that serve and advocate for Queer communities in Eastern Africa now see hope for the future. That’s the case even in Uganda where “aggravated homosexuality” has carried the death penalty since 2023.
“It is still a very hard environment but we are doing much better than a lot of people think,” said Brian Aliganyira, founder and executive director of the Ark Wellness Hub, an organization based in Kampala, Uganda, that helps LGBT community members who have difficulty accessing health services in public hospitals due to both anti-Queer laws and ongoing community stigma and discrimination.
“We are doing better in terms of fighting back and supporting communities, not necessarily better in terms of protection, rights and freedoms,” Aliganyira said.
In Kenya, homosexual acts are illegal. Rodney Otieno, who is the co-founder and policy director for the Queer & Allied Chamber of Commerce Africa of Nairobi (QACC), described the creation of a “Queer ecosystem” that mobilises resources, builds social enterprises, creates sustainable economic pathways for people of the Queer community and attracts impact investments – using money for good causes even as it generates wealth. The QACC now boasts over 3,000 members in Kenya, plus others across Africa.
Language and discrimination
Otieno and the four other East African community leaders interviewed for this article generally prefer to use the more fluid term “Queer” rather than “LGBTQ” or any of its many variations.
Kevin Ngabo, a Queer activist and social justice advocate, said that local languages often lack positive or even neutral words to describe queer identities — only stigmatizing ones.
“‘Queer’ gives us an umbrella that feels both flexible and affirming, allowing people to belong without being boxed in by rigid categories,” Ngabo said. “It’s a way of saying: I am different and that difference is valid.”,
Ngabo was born and raised in Rwanda before moving to Nairobi, Kenya late last year.
In Rwanda, there are no anti-discrimination laws but the government does not recognize same-sex marriages.
Pride in one’s identity
A Queer rights activist in Kigali, who asked not to be identified, said that young people are feeling more comfortable with their identities. “GenZers are taking up more space as their authentic selves,” the activist said. “They are even getting more understanding and affection from their families. It is not ‘weird’ anymore. This will become the norm.”
The Kigali activist has recently been involved in both a Pride Party and a Queer film festival, which attracted over 600 paying participants from around the region.
Queer community leaders point out different elements of both recent progress and hopes for sustainable success in the future beyond the constant imperative to keep community members safe and to try to get discriminatory laws repealed.
“We need to continue to work together, make good use of our limited resources, be clear about what we are doing, raise awareness and be diplomatic when dealing with the authorities” says another anonymous Queer activist and feminist in Rwanda.
Ngabo in Nairobi believes that Queer people across the region need to develop a strong sense of community and be “stubborn when they are told they can’t do something, and take space and stand up for what they believe in.”
Finding allies to your cause
Aliganyira in Kampala agrees that people should not run away from their ongoing challenges with safety, respect and equal opportunity and instead continue to show courage, resilience and perseverance to defend their current rights and expand them in future.
A Queer activist in Rwanda stressed the need to work with allies and others to create more education and training to promote awareness, understanding and empathy.
Ngabo shared some advice: “Start small and start where you are,” he said. “Speak up when you hear harmful stereotypes. Make space for people to share their stories without fear. Support Queer-led groups, attend events, or even just show up for your friends when they need someone safe to lean on.”
Allyship isn’t always grand, he said. “It’s often in the quiet, consistent choices to affirm someone’s humanity,” he said.
Queer community leaders say they are generally optimistic about the future.
“In five to 10 years’ time, the narrative will change completely,” said Otieno in Nairobi.
Changing people’s perceptions
Young queer activists are being empowered and learning how to take on leadership roles in government and in other decision-making spaces, said one Rwandan activist.
Another Rwandan activist envisions a future where same sex couples will be able to get married, adopt kids and access medical services freely.
“Things will improve if we are smart,” the activist said. “I hope we will see more safe spaces, more affirming healthcare (especially in mental health), more economic inclusion, and more media and policy-making representation. In the end though, dignity is more important than law changes.”
Ngabo in Nairobi agrees: “We want respect,” he said. “We want to feel safe. We don’t want equality. We want equal opportunities. We want to thrive.”
Real progress means being able to live authentically without having to conform, he said. “Stronger protections under the law, safe spaces to gather, visibility in public life, and most importantly, Queer people leading the narrative about our own lives,” Ngabo said. “These are what a brighter future looks like to me.”
Even in Uganda, Aliganyira believes things can still change for the better.
Uganda was once considered the safest place for Queer people in East Africa before the 1990s, he said.
“Uganda can undo what it has done and get beyond fear and uncertainty,” he said. “It’s up to everyone to come together and overcome division.”
Questions to consider:
1. Why do LGBTQIA+ community members in East Africa prefer to call themselves “Queer”?
2. What are the key elements of a brighter future for the East African Queer communities?
3. What can you do yourself to stand up for human rights as an ally or a member of a Queer community where you live?
I was absolutely appalled at the anonymous AP Literature and Composition reader’s summary of his time in Salt Lake City. I was even more appalled by his tone, which was condescending, arrogant and unapologetic, and by his sense of superiority. Far be it from me to evaluate how he might be as a teacher (especially if he had a bad night’s sleep, poor lamb), but his emphatic victimhood at the circumstances that accompanied the reading, which he signed up for, was more than off-putting; it was flat out reprehensible.
His attitude, that this whole event is beneath him, is hard to understand. Again, he chose to be there. He blatantly ignored his table leaders, skimmed rather than read essays and, behind the shield of anonymity, celebrated only giving a handful of 5s. He took it as a personal affront when he was asked to follow the rules. I feel especially bad for any AP student who suffered because of the negligence of this dismissive and self-pitying reader.
Worse, he used his entire experience as a microcosm for What’s Wrong With Education Today. The other readers are a part of this excoriation: While he gets up to give himself additional breaks, his colleagues “seem well adapted to the AP regimen, and to regimentation.” He, though, has escaped from Plato’s cave and has come back to tell us all … that the free coffee wasn’t very good.
This, while there are actual problems plaguing the state of college writing, from students uncritically using AI to assignments and essays that aren’t accurately evaluating student learning. With these legitimate concerns, it seems myopic to worry only that he encountered too few essays that contained “something insightful or fluent.” From that small sample, he concludes, “Is this how we’re educating the best and brightest, these college students of the near future? Are the vaunted humanities—assailed for years from without—rotting from within?”
A sharp reader might resist stooping to make such generalizations. A sharp reader might conclude that work written hastily on an unseen topic while myriad other concerns are influencing its writer will rarely be sufficiently fluent. But the author’s preoccupation with these flawed essays reveals something worse: an attitude more concerned with signifying his august tastes than celebrating some of the essays’ successes—which AP readers are explicitly tasked with doing. As many happiness scholars have noted, expressing gratitude is an often-effective way to combat negativity.
If I were the sort of writer who uses few examples to draw overconfident conclusions, I might argue that the anonymous author represents the worst sort of virtue signaler: one who simultaneously laments that the “army of food service workers, mostly Hispanic or Asian,” must serve all the readers, but who also overindulges on the free food (“my waistline expands”). He likewise points out the inequality women professors face (“That fits with the service-heavy load female professors typically shoulder at most universities”) while demeaning his own female table assistant-leader (ignoring her when she asked him to put away his phone). Dare one conclude that he is staring at the mere shadows of true virtue down in his cave of concrete convention center floors and thick black curtains?
Maybe I am overreacting. I have a visceral dislike for the sort of persona he displays here, and it was part of the reason I left higher education after finishing my Ph.D. At most academic conferences, especially in the humanities, where our findings aren’t as obviously helpful to the field as, say, the sciences, postering and self-aggrandizement were pervasive. Seven years ago, I became a high school teacher and now an AP Literature reader, and I’m happy to report that I find myself surrounded more by the optimism of youth than the performative jadedness of some of those in higher education.
I’m sorry the author wears his ennui and disillusionment as a signifier of his superiority. I’m sorry he celebrates his misanthropy alongside his impractically high standards. And it’s a shame that he was so disheartened by this experience, he felt the need to trash it publicly. To what end?
I was not at the author’s table this year. I’m sure my sunny disposition would have made me fodder for his future displeasure. (When he got to his table and saw so many people excited to start reading, he responded, “The enthusiastic vibe can’t help, either.”) But perhaps instead of focusing our energies complaining about the task of wading through essays or the state of writing today, we can embrace the role we have as educators. Few other positions offer that sort of direct influence on such a large number of people.
Hopefully, as we teach our students to write well and insightfully analyze texts, we can also teach them to see the hope that comes with possibility—to see that they can always find something to celebrate, as long as they try to have the right attitude.
Andrew J. Calis is an English teacher at Archbishop Spalding High School in Maryland.
The deal encompasses pathway and pre-master’s programs from the upcoming Liverpool Hope University International Study Centre, which will be based at the university’s Hope Park Campus.
Claire Ozanne, vice-chancellor and rector at Liverpool Hope University, said the new study centre will form an “exciting and important part” of the institution’s international strategy – one that would “further enhance our position as a global university and one that has an inclusive approach to education”.
“International students and the rich diversity of ideas and experiences they bring to our campuses hugely enhance the academic experience for all of our students,” she added.
Malvern International said that through the partnership, students attending the centre can expect to find a challenging curriculum, set to enhance their English language proficiency and the skills to help them successfully transition into university life.
International students and the rich diversity of ideas and experiences they bring to our campuses hugely enhance the academic experience for all of our students Claire Ozanne, Liverpool Hope University
Ashleigh Veres, senior director, university recruitment and partnerships at Malvern International, said that the deal marked “an important step forward and a proud moment for Malvern as we continue to grow and diversify our pathways division, scaling up our capabilities to deliver exceptional services that benefit both universities and students”.
She added: “We are delighted to partner with Liverpool Hope University, an institution renowned for its excellent student satisfaction and commitment to academic excellence. Together, we are dedicated to providing transformative opportunities for students while expanding the University’s global reach and impact.”
In a fiery and prophetic address, the House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries invoked the memory of America’s original struggle for freedom, branding the tyranny of King George III in the years before the American Revolution as “Project 1775.” With bold clarity, he drew a straight line from that era of oppression to today’s rising authoritarianism—what he identified as “Donald Trump’s Project 2025” and the accompanying Trump Spending Bill. But rather than ending in despair, his speech was a call to courage and hope: just as Project 1775 gave birth to the Revolution of 1776, we are called to give birth to a new movement—Project 2026, a revolutionary vision of democracy, justice, and renewal.
His message resonates beyond politics—it speaks deeply to the state of American higher education, which now stands at a crossroads. Under siege from authoritarian impulses, stripped of funding, and commodified by corporate greed, our colleges and universities reflect a nation in spiritual crisis. But as the Minority Leader reminded us, this moment is also one of great opportunity.
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” (2 Timothy 1:7)
Project 2026 is not merely a reaction to tyranny—it is a faith-driven declaration of agency. It is a call to restore education as a public good, not a private racket. It is a rejection of robocolleges, shadowy online program managers, and predatory lenders that have turned learning into a means of lifelong debt. And it is a stand against those who weaponize ignorance and rewrite history for their own gain.
We are reminded in the New Testament that resistance is righteous, and that reform must be rooted in love, justice, and truth.
“And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:32)
This truth must guide the next phase of the American experiment—a truth that recognizes students not as consumers but as citizens; that sees teachers not as disposable labor but as bearers of light; and that understands education as liberation, not subjugation.
Project 2026 can become our modern Sermon on the Mount, a blueprint for building a nation where colleges nurture both critical thinking and spiritual compassion, where public funding is a covenant—not a weapon—and where we “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God” (Micah 6:8).
For decades, institutions of higher learning have drifted toward elitism, exclusion, and exploitation. Many have served as tools of empire, not vessels of enlightenment. Project 2026 offers a rebirth—a Great Awakening that opens the doors of education wide to the poor, the marginalized, and the weary. It speaks to the tired adjunct, the indebted graduate, the first-generation student, and the worker seeking dignity.
“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” (Matthew 5:6)
This is the moment to stand together. Project 2026 must not be left to chance or left in the hands of the powerful alone. It is a grassroots revolution of the mind and spirit—a multiracial, multigenerational, moral movement that calls upon students, faculty, parents, and communities to say: No more.
No more austerity cloaked as fiscal responsibility.
No more censorship masquerading as patriotism.
No more debt for a degree that leads to precarious work and empty promises.
Instead, let us build an education system worthy of democracy—a system animated by the values that once inspired a ragtag group of rebels in 1776. Let us be the generation that reclaims education as the soul of the Republic.
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” (Romans 12:2)
The struggle ahead will not be easy. But neither was 1776. And yet from that fire emerged a new nation. With faith and fierce love, Project 2026 can become a new declaration—not just of independence, but of interdependence. A declaration of solidarity with the forgotten, the silenced, and the struggling.
Let the tyrants tremble. Let the profiteers beware.
A revolution is stirring in our hearts.
And as Scripture reminds us:
“If God is for us, who can be against us?” (Romans 8:31)
Many people are losing hope because of the anti-DEI policies that state legislators and governors have enacted over the past four years, as well as the Trump administration’s brutal attacks via executive orders and the U.S. Department of Education’s now-infamous Valentine’s Day Dear Colleague letter. Hopelessness also has ensued following the swift renaming and discontinuation of offices, centers and institutes, programs and professional positions on campuses. It all happened so fast—in some contexts, over four years; everywhere else, in a matter of months. A significant experience I had three decades ago gives me hope in the possibility of eventual recovery from these politicized storms that have produced such extraordinary damage to DEI initiatives in higher education.
I was born and spent the first 22 years of my life in South Georgia, a place that frequently experiences violent hurricanes and tornadoes. I have seen entire communities wiped out within minutes. In July 1994, just six weeks before the start of my freshman year in college, Tropical Storm Alberto brought torrential rains to Albany, Ga. The National Weather Service reports that more than 30 people died, nearly 50,000 residents were forced to evacuate their homes and over 18,000 structures were completely lost. Many of those buildings were at Albany State, a historically Black university located along the Flint River, which flooded during the storm. Nineteen of its 34 buildings were destroyed beyond repair and ultimately demolished.
Somehow, our fall quarter miraculously started on time. Instead of residence halls, most students in my first-year class moved into mobile homes on campus; dump trucks were scooping massive quantities of mud and recovery crews were still assembling modular units where we would sleep on the day I arrived. There was so much mud. The mess was widespread—everywhere, in fact.
For years, many classrooms and offices were located in trailers. Despite the chaos and abundance of annoying mud everywhere at Albany State, there was hope. As my family and I drove into campus for move-in day, I remember seeing a huge banner on one of the few surviving buildings that simply read, “Unsinkable.” That one word became an inspirational chant and declaration that still pervades the institution, now more than 30 years later.
The flood took so much from my beloved alma mater, but recovery efforts, which required tremendous reliance on the federal government, resulted in a more modernized campus with attractive new facilities that are atypical for most HBCUs due to state and federal funding inequities. Because of what I witnessed firsthand during my four undergraduate years, as well as in the aftermath of numerous other calamitous weather crises that occurred throughout my youth, I know that communities can rebuild homes and structures that are more solid, attractive and high-tech than what previously existed. Even still, a sense of community, family heirlooms and, in some instances, the lives of people and pets are lost. No amount of federal aid can restore those things.
While the context and circumstances are different, living through this disastrous moment in American higher education because of, but not limited to, the politicized teardown of DEI is familiar to me. Put differently, I have lived through and witnessed recovery from many tragic storms.
That does not make it any less distressing. But my four-year undergraduate experience taught me how to envision possibilities beyond the daily inescapability of mud, debris and devastation. When I arrived at Albany State as an 18-year-old freshman, rebuilding had not yet started. The institution instead was working as hard as it could with the resources it had at the time to educate, house and serve us. That is where many contemporary college and university campuses are at this very moment as it pertains to DEI.
Understandably, many students and employees who are most affected by the abandonment of institutional commitments to DEI only have the capacity to survive this catastrophic moment; they are not yet able to begin recovery work. The unavailability of federal, state and institutional resources makes it even less possible for most people to think about the next iteration of DEI efforts on campuses.
Notwithstanding, hope for something better—even if we do not know when that something better will become available—could be the one and only thing that sustains those of us who are truly committed to DEI. To be sure, I do not believe that hope alone will be enough—coalitions, elections, stock taking and documentation of harm, fundraising, activism, institutional and governmental accountability, and sophisticated strategizing are also required.
Right now, there is so much mud. The mess is widespread—everywhere, in fact. Like Albany State, the beautiful HBCU that still stands strong more than 30 years after its neighboring Flint River flooded, DEI in higher education is unsinkable. I have no choice but to believe this, and I will continue doing all I can to achieve this outcome for colleges, universities and our democracy.
Shaun Harper is University Professor and Provost Professor of Education, Business and Public Policy at the University of Southern California, where he holds the Clifford and Betty Allen Chair in Urban Leadership.
First-year composition courses, which are required of incoming students at many colleges and universities, lack cachet. No student gets excited about a comp class, and the faculty who teach these classes usually occupy the low rungs on the academic ladder. And right now, as crisis after crisis batters the country, and the world, first-year composition may seem even less important than usual. But in my 30 years of college teaching, it’s first-year comp classes that give me hope, because they offer the possibility of change.
These small, discussion-based classes give students much-needed practice in how to disagree without disrespect, and—if these classes were embedded more firmly into university curricula—they could radically reshape not only how students learn but how they participate in public life.
My students often come into their comp class with a chip on their shoulder: Why should they have to “learn to write”? They got themselves into college, after all, and if they get stuck on a writing assignment, there’s always ChatGPT. First-year writing is a waste of time, they think; they’re in college to take “real” classes, courses that matter.
I harbor a secret affection for these reluctant students, because I know that their resistance will melt when they discover the immensely practical importance of finding the right words for their ideas—and the accompanying sense of power that comes with being able to express themselves so that others understand them. Universities tell students that comp classes aren’t “content courses,” because writing courses aren’t discipline-specific. But then again, neither is the world we live in: Most of us live, work and think in multiple, overlapping contexts.
For many students, the composition class is the first (and for some, the only) place in college where they experience a seminar-style class that emphasizes process as much as (or more than) product. The paradigm of a composition course involves a reset: It’s not about “the right answer”; it’s about prioritizing curiosity over certainty and about students discovering not only that they have a voice, but that they can use this voice to explore their world. In the 21st-century university, in which faculty are asked for their “course deliverables,” as if learning were an assembly-line widget, comp classes exemplify an alternative to the sludgy tide of university corporatization.
Composition classes encourage questions, welcome mistakes and revisions, and value messiness and curiosity. During peer workshops, which are an integral part of these courses, I remind students that grades aren’t pie: Everyone can, conceivably, get an A in the course, so their workshop task is helping one another create more effective writing, not to tear each other’s drafts to shreds. Their success, in other words, does not depend on someone else’s failure.
There are other disciplines where students work iteratively and collaboratively—computer science, for example. But in composition workshops, students learn to ask the kinds of questions that promote reflection and refinement. They’re quick to pick up on one another’s sweeping generalizations—“throughout history, men and women have always disagreed”—and explain why those sorts of generalizations aren’t effective.
As they talk, they see how their own experiences might be radically different from those of the people reading their work, and they begin to understand how their experiences, consciously or not, have shaped how they see the world. In classroom conversations and workshops, they learn to disagree without rancor and to understand that how they chose to explain (or not explain) an idea has consequences for how they are understood. In a recent essay in The New York Times, Greg Weiner, president of Assumption University, writes that college campuses “are places where dissenting views deserve an elevated degree of respectful and scholarly engagement.” That’s a tall order for U.S. colleges these days, it seems, but it’s one of the underlying principles of composition classrooms.
“How could I say this better?” is a question I hear writers ask, to which their readers reply, “What do you really want to say, and why?” Students ask one another to explain the evidence for their claims, to examine their assumptions and to think about alternative ways of presenting their ideas. Composition courses help people become more effective writers because they help people become better listeners: Students learn to disagree without dismissiveness or disrespect. And as they help one another, they see ways to improve their own work; it’s a feedback loop that helps them find critical distance, which is essential for revision. Quite literally, students have to re-see their ideas and consider the impact of those ideas on their audience.
I remember when a male student from Shanghai read an essay written by a female student from the Persian Gulf about her struggles to be a dutiful daughter. “She totally read my mind,” the Shanghai student proclaimed. “Being a good son, trying to keep my parents happy—it’s exhausting!” His comment prompted a class discussion about the generational struggles they all shared, albeit across wildly divergent cultural experiences. Their differences prompted questions that led to connections; difference became an opportunity for exploration rather than a threat. Students were excited to write the essays that emerged from this conversation; they were invested in examining their own experiences in order to open those experiences to others.
That’s what reading and writing can give us: moments of connection with other people’s lives, which then help us see ourselves in a new light. Connection and distance, empathy and self-reflection: These are the qualitative moves that students practice in composition class. These are the deliverables.
These deliverables, however, don’t translate into status for composition teachers, who are typically not tenure-track or tenured; they are often called lecturers rather than professors, despite having a Ph.D. Most of us are what’s known as contingent faculty because we work on renewable contracts (sometimes semester to semester, sometimes in longer increments).
To be a composition teacher, then, means working in the trenches of the university rather than its ivory towers. I’ve been teaching some version of first-year writing for more than 30 years, and while I might hope otherwise, I know that only one or two semesters of writing instruction isn’t enough to create lasting change, even though the most resistant students admit to feeling like more confident and competent writers by the end of the course.
If universities had the courage to put composition at the center of their missions, however, they could create real change: What if students had expository writing classes every year for four years, regardless of their majors? Four years of slow, reflective, process-based writing about the world outside their specific subjects, with an emphasis on exploration and curiosity, rather than “the right answer”? What if the ability to reflect and reconsider, the twinned abilities at the heart of critical thinking, were the deliverables that mattered?
Imagine those students bringing that training into the public sphere. People who are eager to ask questions and interrogate assumptions (including their own), people who think in terms of process rather than product: These are the basic tenets of almost any composition class and yet, increasingly, these attitudes seem almost radical. People trained in this way could re-shape public discourse so that it becomes conversation rather than a series of point-scoring contests.
First-year comp is a content course. We just need to see that content as valuable.
Deborah Lindsay Williams is a clinical professor in liberal studies at New York University. She is author of The Necessity of Young Adult Fiction (Oxford University Press, 2023) and co-editor of The Oxford History of the Novel in English: Volume 8: American Fiction Since 1940 (Oxford, 2024).
CLEVELAND — In a public school cafeteria here, 6- and 7-year olds were taking turns sketching their ideas for a building made of toothpicks and gummy bears. Their task: to design a structure strong enough to support a single subject notebook.
It was a challenge meant to test their abilities to plan ahead, work as a team and overcome setbacks. But first, they had to resist the urge to eat the building materials.
Zayden Barnes, a first grader at Clara E. Westropp School of the Arts, picked up a blue gummy bear and sniffed it. “That smells good,” he said, licking his lips.
Mia Navarro, another first grader, held a green gummy bear to her nose and inhaled deeply. “I can’t stop smelling them!” she exclaimed. “I just want to eat it, but I can’t!”
The lesson in engineering and self-control was part of an after-school program run by the nonprofit Horizon Education Centers. It’s one of a dwindling number of after-school options in a city with one of the highest child poverty rates of any large urban area in the country.
Last year, Horizon and other nonprofit after-school providers reached more than 7,000 students in Cleveland public schools, buoyed by $17 million in pandemic recovery aid. But when the money ran out at the end of that school year, nonprofits here had to drop sites, shed staff and shrink enrollment. Horizon, which was in five public schools last year, is now in just one.
Similar setbacks can be seen across the country, as after-school programs struggle to replace billions in federal relief money. While a few states are helping to fill the gap, Ohio isn’t among them. And many providers fear more cuts are coming, as the Trump administration continues its campaign to slash government spending and end “equity-related” grants and contracts.
The after-school sector plays a critical role in the nation’s economy, providing close to 8 million students, or nearly 14 percent of all school-aged children, with a safe place to go while their parents work. It offers homework help, enriching activities, healthy snacks and physical exercise — often for a fee, but sometimes for free.
Done well, after-school programs can strengthen students’ social and emotional skills, increase their engagement with and attendance in school, and reduce their risk of substance abuse or criminal activity. In some cases, they can help improve grades and test scores, too.
Yet the sector, which has existed for more than 100 years, has long been hobbled by inadequate funding, staffing shortages and uneven quality. There are long waitlists for many programs, and low-income families often struggle to find affordable options.
In a recent survey by the nonprofit Afterschool Alliance, more than 80 percent of program leaders said they were concerned about their program’s future, and more than 40 percent said they worried they’d have to close permanently.
“The state of afterschool in America feels very grim,” said Alison Black, executive director of the Cleveland affiliate of America Scores, a nonprofit that teaches soccer and poetry to students in 13 cities across North America.
Students build a gummy bear structure in an after-school program run by Horizon Education Centers, in Cleveland. Credit: Grace McConnell for The Hechinger Report
After-school programs emerged in the second half of the 19th century, in philanthropic settlement houses that provided English courses and health care to the children of immigrants, according to a Rand Corporation report. They multiplied after Congress passed child labor laws in the 1930s, and again during World War II, when women entered the workforce in large numbers.
In those early days, the programs functioned mostly as child care, offering a solution to the problem of the “latchkey kid.” But they began to take on a broader role in the 1960s, when the programs started to be seen as a way to both reduce youth crime and provide kids with positive role models, according to Rand.
In the 1980s and 1990s, policymakers and funders began demanding that after-school programs play a part in closing the academic gaps between wealthier and poorer kids. High-poverty schools began setting aside some of their Title I funds to provide after-school programs.
But it wasn’t until 1998 that the federal government offered targeted support to after-school programs, in the form of competitive grants awarded by the states through the newly created 21st Century Community Learning Centers Program. The first year, Congress appropriated $40 million for the program; by 2002, that number had swelled to $1 billion.
Today, the after-school sector is made up of a mix of programs providing academic support, enrichment (sports, theater and the like) or some combination. Their goals and funding streams vary, from public dollars to philanthropic and corporate gifts. Many survive by stitching together multiple sources of funding.
The 21st Century program remains the only dedicated federal funding stream for after-school and summer learning, providing $1.3 billion in support to 10,000 centers serving close to a fifth of students in 2023.
After-school programs are popular among parents, and demand for slots far exceeds the supply. For every child in an after-school program, there are three more who would participate if an affordable, accessible option was available to their families, according to surveys by the Afterschool Alliance.
Gina Warner, CEO of the National Afterschool Association, says afterschool is a space where kids can try new things and take risks they wouldn’t take at school, where the stakes are higher. “Afterschool is still a place where kids can fail” without consequence, she said.
The programs also connect students with positive adult role models who aren’t their teachers or caregivers, said Jodi Grant, executive director of the Afterschool Alliance. “Our biggest strength, when it gets down to it, is relationships,” Grant said.
But sustaining those connections can be difficult in a sector with low pay and limited opportunities for advancement. Turnover rates are high, and when staff don’t stick around, “You’re missing one of the best benefits of afterschool,” said Warner.
Students practice a dance routine at the Downtown Boxing Gym, in Detroit. Credit: Kelly Field for The Hechinger Report
For a sector accustomed to scraping by, the American Rescue Plan Act of 2021 was like a winning lottery ticket.
Over three years, after-school programs received roughly $10 billion in ARPA aid — money they used to add staff, improve pay and benefits and expand enrollment, according to the Afterschool Alliance. It estimates that programs were able to serve 5 million more kids as a result.
But the money has mostly been spent, and late last month, Education Secretary Linda McMahon told districts that their time to use any remaining funds was over. In Cleveland, which spent almost $28 million on out-of-school time programs between fiscal 2022 and 2024, Horizon and other nonprofits formed a coalition to try to convince the district to continue at least a portion of the aid. They held rallies, secured media coverage and brought parents to testify before the school board. But the district wouldn’t budge, said David Smith, Horizon’s executive director.
“There’s no opportunity to go back to the scale we were at during the pandemic, and we still have the same problems,” said Smith. “Kids are getting in trouble after school, and they still need the extra academic help.”
The Cleveland Metropolitan School District made significant gains under its last CEO, Eric Gordon, whose Cleveland Plan was credited with improved student outcomes, including a 25 percentage point increase in the high school graduation rate. But the pandemic erased some of those gains and Cleveland, like many districts, is still recovering.
The district’s new CEO, Warren Morgan, has defended his decision not to fund the nonprofit providers, noting that the district offers after-school sports and an arts program. But those extracurriculars vary by day and by school, and after-school advocates say many schools have been left without the consistent, comprehensive care working parents depend on.
“Our city is focused on workforce development without thinking about who cutting this care hurts,” said Black, of America Scores Cleveland.
Without continued support from the district, Black’s organization has had to dip into its rainy-day fund and drop fall soccer for middle schoolers. Serving elementary students feels more essential, she explained, since younger kids can’t stay home alone.
Other nonprofits have been harder hit. The Greater Cleveland Neighborhood Centers Association, or NCA, has closed half of its locations in the district, leaving programs in seven schools. The Boys and Girls Clubs of Northeast Ohio, which lost $3 million in pandemic relief dollars and other federal support this academic year, has shuttered 17 sites.
Dorothy Moulthrop, chief executive officer of Open Doors Academy, another nonprofit, thinks the losses might have been less severe if the after-school coalition had been able to show strong results for the federal money. Though individual programs handed over reams of data to the district, Moulthrop wasn’t able to get its leaders to share the data in a form that would allow providers to study their collective impact.
“We needed to be able to demonstrate our return on investment and we were not able to,” she said.
Students in a poetry class run by America Scores Cleveland. Credit: Grace McConnell for The Hechinger Report
Questions about whether after-school programs are a good investment of public dollars have dogged the sector since the early 2000s, when Mathematica Policy Research began publishing the results of an evaluation that found the 21st Century program had little impact on student outcomes.
The study, which is often cited by politicians seeking to gut after-school spending, was controversial at the time, and remains so. Defenders of afterschool argue the evaluation was methodologically flawed and point to other research that found that students who regularly attended high-quality programs saw significant gains. But one of the study’s two authors, Susanne James-Burdumy, said in an interview that it was the most rigorous of its time.
In the 20 years since the Mathematica reports were published, hundreds of dissertations and program evaluations have added to the evidence base for both sides of the debate. But large-scale, rigorous evaluations of after-school programs remain rare, and their findings are mixed, James-Burdumy and other researchers say.
Though some analyses have found after-school programs can boost reading and math achievement, promote positive social behaviors and reduce negative ones, other studies have shown little growth in those and other areas.
Some of that inconsistency likely stems from differences in the quality of programs, researchers and advocates say. When funding is tight, after-school programs tend to focus their dollars on services, rather than professional development or program evaluation.
“Quality often feels like an extra,” said Jessie Kerr-Vanderslice, a consultant at the American Institutes for Research who focuses on out-of-school time programs.
Advocates also note a misalignment between program goals and outcome measures: While after-school programs often prioritize relationships and social and emotional skill-building, their funders frequently focus on academic gains.
One variable that seems to matter in student outcomes is attendance: Studies have found that students who attend regularly reap greater benefits than those who show up sporadically.
Yet more than half of students who participated in programs paid for with 21st Century grants in 2022-23 attended for less than 90 hours, a program evaluation shows. That works out to just 30 days for a three-hour program.
At Clara E. Westropp Elementary in Cleveland, where Horizon Education Centers has been able to continue its after-school program with a 21st Century grant, 73 students are enrolled, but average daily attendance is less than half that.
Students descend the stairs during an after-school program run by America Scores Cleveland. Credit: Grace McConnell for The Hechinger Report
On the other side of Lake Erie, at Detroit’s Downtown Boxing Gym, students are required to attend at least three days a week. To keep them coming, the program offers a huge range of activities, from cooking to coding (but ironically, not boxing).
Inside the large building that houses the program, there’s a lab with a flight simulator and 3D printer, and a music studio paid for and built by one of Eminem’s former producers.
Outside, on a turf field where the program plans to build an addition that will enable it to double enrollment, a group of middle school majorettes was preparing for an upcoming dance performance.
Debra Beal, who became the caregiver to her niece’s two young sons when she was in her 50s, says the program saved her life — and theirs. It kept the boys, now 19 and 20, off the streets while she worked, provided them with exercise and tutoring, and even served them dinner. The staff became like family, supporting her when she struggled as a parent and offering to pay for counseling when one son lost his father and uncle from fentanyl overdoses on the same day.
“What they’re doing is life-changing,” said Beal, whose long denim coat had the word “Blessed” written in sequins on the back.
Financially, the Downtown Boxing Gym is on surer footing than its counterparts in Cleveland. The Michigan Legislature has provided $50 million in funding for after-school programs in each of the last two years, and the program recently received $3 million in funds from the state.
That doesn’t mean the program isn’t being pinched by the Trump administration’s cost-cutting campaign and purge of diversity, equity and inclusion programs, said Jessica Hauser, its executive director. Corporations the program was counting on for seven-figure gifts for the addition and program expansion are reconsidering their pledges, and a promised federal earmark now seems unlikely.
Hauser is also worried about potential cuts to federal child nutrition programs and student aid, which the program depends on for meals and college student tutors.
Back in Cleveland, the coalition Smith formed to fight for after-school funding has expanded to include the city, the county and a local foundation, which hired a consultant to come up with the cost to deliver quality after-school programming. To longtime advocates like Smith and Allison Wallace, executive director of the NCA, it feels like the sector is having to prove itself, yet again.
“They’re revisiting conversations we had 15 years ago, around best practices and identifying quality,” Wallace said. “We keep going over the same things, and we’re not getting any traction.”
Things could get even tougher in the next couple years, as the district shifts the costs of providing security and custodial services for after-school programs onto the nonprofit providers. Wallace estimates that the change will cost providers tens of thousands per site.
And future federal funding is far from guaranteed. Though the 21st Century program enjoys bipartisan support in Congress, Trump sought to eliminate it in every budget proposal he issued in his first term and is expected to do so again.
For now, though, after-school programs are still providing kids in Cleveland with caring staff, a safe place to spend the hours after school, and engaging activities like gummy bear construction.
The teams had 10 minutes to build structures that could support a notebook. When the timer went off, the structure built by Zayden and Mia’s group resembled a two-story house with a caved-in roof. Zayden wasn’t feeling optimistic.
“I think it’s going to fall,” he said.
“Think positive,” said Kathy Thome, a program administrator who is helping the group.
Ian Welch, the program’s site coordinator for Clara E. Westropp, picked up a notebook and approached the table. He reminded the teams that failure is part of the scientific method. If their structures collapse, they can try again, he said.
“It’s going to squish down,” Mia predicted.
She was right. But the flattened structure still held the notebook aloft. The kids jumped up and down, and Zayden did a little boogie.
“We’re so happy — we did it!” he said.
Welch rewarded their effort with some fresh gummy bears, and the kids, proud and hopped up on sugar, waited for their parents to pick them up.
Contact editor Caroline Preston at 212-870-8965, on Signal at CarolineP.83 or via email at [email protected].
This story was produced with support from the Education Writers Association Reporting Fellowship program.
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It started, as so many great conversations do, over coffee.
On a chilly January day as we swapped tales of small children and shared cultural touchstones, we found ourselves riffing on the Trolls movie (which it turns out we have both seen a painful number of times). In particular, we found ourselves in Borgentown: a drab, grey world of monotony and drudgery, where fleeting joy depends on eating the vibrant, music-loving Trolls.
There’s an uncomfortable resonance with the current temperature of higher education where we can see the joy and possibility at the heart of education being overshadowed by a grinding sense of the need for survival. The drip-feed of news of more institutions in financial trouble, the dissipation of expectation that the Westminster government would pursue bold action early in its term of office, the existential dread of global geopolitics.
The sense that the sector desperately needs a fresh vision and plan for the future, combined with unease about whether that vision will ever materialise and where it will materialise from. It’s hardly surprising that even relentless chirpy people like us can sometimes feel a bit…Borgeny.
Ode to joy
Mark is an educator and Debbie a policy wonk, but we share the conviction that education should be a joyful act. It is the engineering of possibility, the building of capability, the empowerment of individuals to deliver positive impact in the world. It is an act of creation (and creation by proxy), and any such act is joyous. Done well, policymaking can also be creative and empowering, in the ways it seeks to adjust the conditions for good and desirable outcomes to flourish.
But the mood in higher education often feels very different. It feels negative and ground down, paralysed, even fatalistic. Educators, long asked to do more with less, feel denied, their good ideas drowned out by demands for managerial efficiency. Meanwhile, leaders are navigating hostile, contradictory, resource-constrained times. The result is a collective energy that’s fraught and disempowered. This is dangerous, because fatalism is a trap.
Paolo Freire wrote of the ways that fatalism denies people the ability to imagine change. It leaves us believing that what is, is all that ever can be. Education is the opposite of fatalism – it equips us with the power to critically appraise the way things are and to imagine alternatives. Freire said that the primary goal of educators should be to punctuate fatalism with critical hope. And so there is a double tragedy if even educators are deprived of their potential to imagine and enable better futures. Similarly, policymakers at all levels need to take seriously their responsibility to convene, lead, and enable change, lest fatalism set in and undermine the social fabric.
When we talk to sector colleagues, we see a creeping fatalism that comes with dealing with a proliferation of things that are difficult, not in a stretching or challenging or inspiring way, but in a way that chips away at mental and emotional bandwidth. But we also see lots to get excited about – an underlying energy and continued appetite to engage in imaginative discussion, an empathy for the challenges individuals and teams are facing that is breaking down some of the traditional silos, and a curiosity and openness to finding new ways to solve old problems.
The higher education sector is going through some tough times. It may not look exactly the same as it does now a decade hence, but it retains an extraordinary capacity to shape its own future. And this is where we think there is scope for some “interdisciplinary” thinking to happen.
Coming to a website near you
As Wonkhe’s newest contributing editor, in the months ahead Mark will intentionally explore ideas that seem unachievable on the surface, not to frustrate, but to provoke and to encourage us to see what those ideas tell us about what is possible. We will poke at old orthodoxies – and unsettle some new ones before they sediment fully.
Are our narratives on how research environments benefit students really compelling (really?)? Is our defensiveness around grade inflation obscuring that classifications are just a really stupid way of signalling talent? And while we’re at that, can assessment be freed from the stranglehold of compliance? Is “belonging” already becoming a hollow buzzword? And what happens if we fully lean into AI rather than mitigating it? We’ll play with the notion of “co-creation” as only currently skimming at the surface of possibility – and explore pedagogy as a device to more authentically deliver civic aspirations.
In that spirit, we will also have one eye on policy, and the changes that would be needed to policy to help bring new ideas and thinking into being. Imagining different possibilities has to include tackling questions of what concepts like “quality” and “access” mean in the changing higher education landscape, and what they can or ought to mean in the future, what accountabilities and enabling relationships educators, professionals, and institutions should have and how/the extent to which these can be mediated through policy.
This is not an exercise in naive utopianism, nor is it an attempt to attack the sector. Rather it is an affirmation of the sector’s talent, creativity, and intellectual energy. We want to rally the dreamers, the thinkers, and the doers in education – those who are already innovating, those waiting for permission to dream, and those who believe another world is possible – to prise open the Overton window of what is politically acceptable, and push at the boundaries that various sector sacred cows make appear as if they are set in stone.
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