Final thoughts on Polk

First, an apology.

I'm sorry I won't be at Monday evening's Cedar Rapids School Board meeting. A long-planned family vacation means I won't get to witness the fateful vote on closing Polk Elementary. At least I've got one more chance to weigh in.

My parents were both educators. My mother taught kindergarten and co-owned a preschool for years. My father taught and coached for five decades. He was elected to the school board in my hometown last fall, and turned 80 just this past week.

My dad tells a lot of stories, many more than once. But the ones he cherishes most are about kids he's encountered over the years who faced challenges of one sort or another. He speaks of how he played a role in helping them recognize their potential, and how they learned to harness it to achieve big things. When my mom died, he heard from many of those kids, and their success and gratitude shone a light into some very dark days.

He taught classes and coached teams, but he speaks of kids as individuals. A guy who won state titles on the field seems a lot happier about kids who succeeded in life.

Luckily, I think every school has some educators who unlock potential. But when I hear parents and community leaders passionately praise Polk, I'm struck by the fact that those accolades aren't heaped on a few teachers or an administrator or a caring staff member. It's all about the school, the whole school, a special school. A school that seems, by all accounts, to be a place where children are nurtured, encouraged and taught to believe their potential as individuals is unlimited, by a collaborative collection of educators and staff determined to make that happen, every day.

I know, I'm failing to see the big picture, budgets and unused capacity. Every school is great, we're told, so no school is really special.

But I do see the big picture of these kids' lives. And it's not all pretty. Many live in the sort of neighborhoods folks like me struggle to describe delicately. Around them are all sorts of hard realities strongly suggesting their potential won't amount to much.

And yet, this school, sitting in the middle of all that, succeeds. Its kids excel. Its parents are the involved and passionate partners schools always seek. Its ties to its neighborhood and community are strong.

It should be a model. And yet, it's a sacrificial lamb. Something is not right.

Scattering these students may look great in the big picture. But focus in on 200-plus small pictures, you'll see damage that may not be repaired, big things that may never be done. The school board can't let that happen.