Last month, Denver Public Schools released the draft of a new discipline policy centered on the principles of restorative justice. Lost in the data of nearly 12,000 mostly middle and high school students suspended every year are stories of accountability that lead to restoration rather than exclusion. These cases are beacons of hope to those working in the trenches of school reform. (For obvious reasons, the names used here are pseudonyms.)
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Paloma Martinez was a sensitive, 12-year-old Hispanic with weird facial expressions and awkward social mannerisms. For years, she was a bully magnet. She was lonely, and became suicidal at an early age.
Joe Stephens was a small, sensitive black kid classified under “special education” so he could survive the system. (Later that year, I pulled a 4- inch buck knife out of the pocket of his oversized winter jacket while searching for stolen goods. I believed him when he said he carried it for protection on the way to and from school, but Joe was expelled anyway.)
On the two-year anniversary of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, Joe was terrorizing Paloma in a DPS classroom. Paloma was finally pushed past her limit and started hitting him. Joe wasn’t harmed, but he squared up to fight.
The teacher broke them up, and they landed in my office with a recommendation from the assistant principal for mediation rather than the usual suspension. I agreed.
Both Joe and Paloma were willing to talk, and had a lot to say. It was clear there was a history of conflict and bullying since the previous year, involving other students as well, and that Joe was a bit player in the overall oppression of Paloma. They began discussing deeper issues. Paloma talked about her younger brother, who had a potentially fatal birth defect. His name is D’Angelo, which means angel. “He is dear to me,” she sighed. She said that whenever she felt sad, she wrote things down in a journal.
Joe talked about his older brother, who had been shot to death. Another brother still banged with the gangs. Paloma suggested that when Joe felt sad about the loss of his brother, he should try writing his feelings down. At that moment, a door opened between them and they were no longer victim and bully. They came together in the house of suffering, one long-term resident showing another how to make it out alive.
A few minutes later, Joe offered to apologize for the bullying, but Paloma was reluctant to accept it. My co-mediator advised Paloma to accept, because it was a big deal for Joe the bully to offer an apology.
“Lady,” Paloma cried, “you don’t know what it’s like to come to school every day with your mask on.” Paloma’s mask slipped to the side, a tear of fear and frustration escaping down her cheek. She talked about what it was like to be a chronic victim, sometimes skipping school out of fear and anger. She said she had too much to lose by letting her protective shield down, even to accept a genuine apology. I suggested that she take the time to reflect and to see if there was a real change between her and Joe. She could consider accepting his apology at a later time. The mediation concluded.
A week or so later, I checked in with Joe and Paloma, separately this time, to see how things had been going. Joe said they’d been getting along, that he’d even tried to stick up for Paloma when other kids teased her.
Paloma confirmed what Joe told me, and took it a step further. Joe had not only told other kids to stop teasing her, he’d even told them to tease him instead. I concealed my surprise and sent Paloma back to class.
It sometimes feels that the task of school reform is beyond human effort. The vast numbers of students who drop out of our public school system is staggering. It will take more hard work and a few miracles along the way to stanch the bleeding. Fortunately, the miracles are happening — we just need to believe.
Jeremy Simons is a restorative justice coordinator for Denver Public Schools and can be reached at jsimons@gmail.com. He was a member of the 2006 Colorado Voices panel.
