"2025": Cuts, Censorship and Vouchers for the Well-Off

Project 2025 Takes Direct Aim at Public Education

The nightmare of universal vouchers is already playing out across the country, siphoning away billions to private schools while dramatically underfunding public education.

Project 2025 doubles down on all of it, converting precious federal funds that lift communities and kids in need into even more private vouchers. Throw in censorship, the end of vaccinations and the elimination of wide-ranging support services in public schools, and what you get is a true meltdown of education across the board.

Chapter 8 of “2025” walks through it all, based on the plans spelled out in Project 2025, and what we already know to be happening in state after state:

Introduction and Chapter 1: Protester Deportations

Chapter 2: Banning Abortion and IVF

Chapter 3: Gutting Civil Service (Schedule F)

Chapter 4: No Vaccines in Schools

Chapter 5: “Revenge” and a Weaponized DOJ

Chapter 6: Mass Deportation

Chapter 7: Brutal Attacks on Workers and Unions

Onto Chapter 8…

August

Capitol Monthly

“Martha Sheakley”

By Rose Carpenter

RAVENNA, Ohio

“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. I feel guilty even doing it.”

Paige Parker, the petite, 33-year-old school librarian, was seated on one side of a large rectangular table. She held a book in her left hand with three tall piles of books stacked in front of her. Several plastic bins full of books lay at her feet.

Martha Sheakley, who’d just sat down across the table from Paige, nodded sympathetically. But like a platoon leader passing along wrongful orders, she had to strike a balance. Make clear she didn’t like them either. But keep her team moving forward, since the consequences of not executing those orders were dire for all of them.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Martha said. “How’s it going?”

Martha sipped from the ice coffee she’d bought on the drive in from her home outside of Akron. The caffeine helped jolt her for this first of a long day of back-to-back meetings.

Martha was beginning her fourth year as Southeast Middle School’s principal. With classes starting in just two weeks, early August was always a frenetic time. But this year, it was as if school was already in full swing. The entire nation’s insane politics thrown on her shoulders, and only two weeks remained to solve it all.

She wore her brown hair in a pony tail and donned old jeans and a Cleveland Browns T-shirt. But her hope—that casual attire would ease her tension—didn’t pan out.

“Terrible. The standards are so vague, I’m literally throwing out classics.”

She gestured to the two piles on her right.

“That stack is the CRT/DEI stuff. The other is the so-called pornography.”

A piece of paper lay in front of Paige, which Martha recognized as the district-wide legal guidance about what books to ban to avoid criminal prosecution.

Martha squinted through her round glasses to scan the titles.

Toni Morrison, one of her favorite authors, had books in both stacks.

A book about Michelle Obama was on the DEI stack.

“Handmaid’s Tale” and a book by Judy Blume were on the pornography stack.

“I mean, look at this one,” Paige said, holding up the book in her hand.

Martha eyed the cover. The book was called “New Kid.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing. It’s a graphic novel about a Black seventh grader going to a mostly White school, and the challenges he faces.”

“But you’re gonna remove it?”

“Yes, several parents flagged it.” She held up the piece of paper. “And this memo defines ‘critical race theory’ so broadly I’m worried someone could say it breaks the law.”

Martha spotted another stunner on the “pornography” pile.

“Wait, you’re removing ‘Anne Frank’ too?”

Paige frowned. “It was on the parents’ list. And it includes so-called sexual content, as defined by the memo."

Martha sighed, running her hand through her thick hair.  To protect everyone, the school board had requested the legal opinion as they broke for summer. And to be doubly cautious, the district created a process allowing parents to request specific books to be banned. Most parents didn’t respond, and many wrote emails saying they trusted Paige and the teachers’ judgment of what was appropriate. But the small group of parents who had been showing up at school board meetings for the past year had sent in long lists, clearly gathered on-line or from chat groups they were in. And so under the school board’s direction, Paige had to flag them all.

Martha despised the process, and resented the fact she’d had to assign it to Paige. A school librarian, in only her second year, now deputized as a government censor? What in hell was happening to the world?

But the new laws couldn’t be more clear, and Paige herself would be the one locked up if they weren’t careful. And permanently labelled a sex offender in the process.

The young librarian, who’d gotten married over the summer and was still tan from her honeymoon, lifted her arms in frustration.

“There are so many like this. Some were among our most popular books the last few years—not just with the kids, but their parents. Why should some parents get to tell other parents what their kids can read?”

“They shouldn’t,” Martha said. “But we have to keep going. Pack them all in boxes and we’ll find a place to store them. Let’s hope we can bring them back when all this craziness is behind us.”

Paige shook her head, her brown bob brushing against her shoulders.

“I hope so. But that’s a lot of boxes!”

And a lot of censorship, Martha thought as she stood up to head to her next meeting.

Dreading it.

• * *

As she sat down, the dead-eyed stares facing Martha told her all she needed to know. This would be a rough meeting—worse than her library update.

They were in the small, windowless conference room next to her office. Trey Butler, the school district’s long-time treasurer, sat on the other end of the table, a binder in front of him. Even with everyone else casual, Trey wore his go-to blue suit and vest, which was already making him sweat. Bald on top, with tufts of gray hair on each side of his head, Trey looked like the bad guy in a movie when he frowned. The district’s deputy administrator sat next to him, her usually gleaming eyes red.

A blue binder awaited Martha on the other side of the table. She opened the cover, then clenched her teeth as she scanned the table of contents on the first page. The agenda alone confirmed how bad the meeting was going to be.

The first topic listed: “Enrollment.”

She turned the page, where a graph in the page’s center told the story. A relatively flat line going back a few years angled slightly upward on the chart’s far right, above the tab “2025-2026.”

“I always assumed we’d lose kids due to those universal vouchers, with all that private school advertising,” she said. “But you were right.”

Trey shook his head.

“We’ve tried telling the state this for years. And you heard me tell the school board the same thing. As high as it is, the private voucher amount isn’t close to the tuition of the high-end private schools. So with most of our students coming from working families, they can’t afford to go to those schools even with the vouchers.”

“And I keep hearing the private tuition is going up.” Parents in her neighborhood had been complaining about it.

“It sure is, thanks to the guaranteed revenue of those vouchers. Which only makes the gap for our kids larger. Same with urban kids.”

“But our overall funding is being squeezed because of the explosion of vouchers around the state. Who the heck’s using them?”

“Simple. It’s almost entirely families in the better-off suburbs who were already sending their kids to the private schools. I mean, most Ohio counties—the rural ones—don’t even have a private school anywhere near them, so even if the voucher covered the full cost, it would still be useless.”

He wiped sweat from his brow.

“It’s all about the suburbs,” he reiterated.

Martha shifted in her chair. She lived in one of those suburbs. And many of the kids in their neighborhood had gone to those private schools since pre-K.

“So they use the voucher to keep going to the school they were already going to?”

“Exactly. And we know from new data, most of these families could already afford the school. It’s basically an $8,000 coupon for the better-off—but getting even higher now with the redirected federal money.”

Advocates had decried the state’s voucher policy for years, warning of the very effect Trey was describing. Now, the federal government was doubling down on it all, eliminating the Department of Education and diverting what used to be targeted federal support to this warped cause of big discounts for private school tuition.

Martha shook her head. She thought of the houses in her neighborhood. Big ones. Many no doubt scooping up those huge “coupons.”

She looked again at the enrollment numbers.

“So, bottom line—we have the same number of students, but less money to handle them all?”

“Actually, our student population went up. Remember, a number of unvaccinated kids are showing up for the first time.”

“That’s right,” she said, nightmares of last spring replaying in her mind, after the school had stopped requiring vaccinations in order to keep the federal funding now being slashed.

Trey continued. “And yes, we’re being squeezed due to state underfunding and the loss of federal funds. Which takes us to the binder’s second section.”

Martha flipped to the next page. At the top were the words: “Wrap-Around Services.” Her temperature rose as she scanned the services listed below, along with a dollar figure next to each.

“Ok. Which do we have to reduce?”

Trey let out a long breath.

“All of them.”

Her stomach clenched.

“All?”

“Yes, all.”

He paused.

“And we’re not reducing them. We have to get rid of them entirely.”

She looked at the list again, wincing.

“Mental health counseling” appeared first. Their two mental health counselors had made a huge difference with struggling students. One boy, badly bullied by some classmates, was on the verge of suicide when one of the counselors intervened and got him the help he needed. The bullies were expelled, and the counselor was named school employee of the year.

Next on the list was the school resource officer program. The two Ravenna police officers who served as SROs were part of the school community. Role models who knew every kid by name. But they also provided a critical blanket of safety. One year ago, Officer Wilhelm had locked down the school after observing an armed man walking through the parking lot. Police arrived minutes later, subdued the man, and found a full arsenal in the back of the man’s pick-up.

Then there was the after-care program, a partnership between the school and the local YMCA. In almost all Southeast households, both parents worked, which made their after-care program a critical service for the entire community. Rather than being on the streets or at home alone, the kids instead engaged in a variety of activities with younger teachers who stayed after for extra pay.

“We can’t even do after care?”

“I’m afraid not,” Trey said. “The amount we have to put in to the Y, along with the supplemental pay, is just too much. It’s got to go. Honestly, Martha, it’s not even close.”

The next two items listed brought Martha personal pain. The school’s long-time reading and writing specialist had turned her son Jacob’s life around. He was now a top student in his high school.

And the “EF Specialist”—EF was short for executive functioning—also appeared on the chopping block. Martha had brought Mrs. Trice in part-time three years ago, and she’d lifted countless kids who’d had trouble focusing, or had been formally diagnosed with ADHD. Martha had moved Mrs. Trice to full time after seeing what a difference she was making.

“No more EF intervention?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Martha’s resignation was morphing into anger. The wrap-around services that they’d brought into the school over the past decade had changed the place. The campus was safer and the kids were faring better because of it. Martha could see it every day in the school hallways, and recently, in higher test scores as well.

“Trey….I need you to push harder.  These are devastating cuts.”

He stared back, silent at first.

“I know they are. But we have no choice.  Our top goal is not to overwhelm our classroom teachers with bigger numbers, so we have to be tough on everything else. In the high school, we’re getting rid of all the same positions, as well as the college counselors.”

“But who’s going to handle all of the kids with these extra needs? If the answer is nobody, that will end up falling back on the classroom teachers anyway.”

“It will fall on the families. We are preparing a list of all the resources they’ll need, and will send it out at the end of the week.”

“C’mon, Trey! They can’t afford any of these things.”

He held his hands in the air.

“I’m just the messenger.”

“I know, I know. But this is awful.”

He stared back.

“Next page,” she said as she flipped to the third section.

The words “IDEA/TITLE I” were written across the top of the page.

“Don’t tell me. We have to get rid of IDEA as well?”

“Well, we don’t have to, because the federal government already did it for us. All the money we used to get for IDEA is now going to the state, which converts it into more voucher dollars.”

Martha slammed her hand on the table.

“Are you kidding me?” she yelled. “Kids with disabilities and special needs aren’t going to get help so private school families get a break on tuition they could already afford? That’s absolutely nuts.”

“It’s both nuts and what’s happening.”

“Again, what are these kids and their families supposed to do? The private schools don’t take them. And now they can’t get the support they need in public schools.”

“Again, they will still come here, but we can give them a list—“

“—they can’t afford those services, Trey.  That’s why IDEA exists in the first place.”

Trey went quiet. “I know. I know.”

His lips trembled.

“You’re just the messenger. I understand.”

“And Title I funds?”

Title I provided a critical source of federal funding to account for the high-poverty families in the district. It funded the salaries of many Southeast teachers.

“Same trick—Title I funding is being phased out and sent instead to the the states..”“

“More vouchers?”

“—No doubt.”

“So what will that do?”

“It will take a toll. It’s one reason for the cuts above. And we’ll need to make up for it elsewhere as well.”

Three pages remained.

Her heart sped up as she saw the title of the next page: “Federal School Lunch.”

“Don’t tell me. They’re going to let our poorest kids starve?”

“Not all. We’ve been getting a grant to pay for free and reduced school lunches for all our kids. That’s been eliminated.”

“So who gets free lunches now?”

“Only our poorest kids.”

“And what about the others?”

“We’re going to add a fee structure to make up the difference.”

“So the sort-of poor families are paying a new fee so their kids can eat?”

“That’s probably the nicest way to put it. But I’ve also reached out to the local food banks and businesses to see if we can partner to get food for these kids.”

She nodded.

“Good. Let me know if I can help with that.”

“Will do.”

She turned to the second to last page: “Pay to Play.” A tool Southeast had proudly avoided in recent years.

No more.

The page presented a long list of sports and other activities, each with a dollar sign next to it.

“Football — $750/$1000

Soccer — $500/$750

Volleyball — $500/$750”

Many other sports followed. The number on the left represented the middle school fee. The one on the right, the high school fee.

Then came other activities:

“Band — $350

Arts — $350

Cheerleading — $500

Debate Club — $200

Yearbook — $250

The Recorder — $250”

“Wait, we’re charging for kids to write for the school newspaper?”

“That’s for the high school—“

“I don’t care what it’s for. The arts? Band? Debate?”

“I’m afraid so. We’re just stuck.”

She did the math in her head. If Jake were still here, she’d owe an extra $1,300.

At the bottom of the page, one final item appeared: “Nurse visit—$100 per.”

“And we’re charging families for nurse visits?”

“We have to if we want to keep Nurse Thomas.”

“Of course we need to keep her, especially with all these new unvaccinated kids. She’s going to be busier than ever.”

“I know. That’s why we need that fee. And $100 is the lowest we could go. Cutting it very close as it is.”

Speechless, Martha turned to the last page: “Classroom Instruction”

The words and numbers instantly made clear that Trey was proposing a permanent reduction in teachers and a big leap in class sizes.

“But I thought the whole point was that we weren’t touching classroom teachers or class size?”

“That is the point, and all those other cuts minimized the impact.”

“But this says we’re going to have average class sizes of 32 kids.”

“We are. Since enrollment didn’t go down, and our state and federal funding did, that’s the new number. The good news is that we don’t need to lay people off. The more senior teachers are getting out on their own.”

Of course they were, Martha thought. She’d talked to a number of them over the summer. Some feared the risk of getting sick. Others were just plain exhausted, and knew things were getting worse.

Who could blame them?

Years of political assaults on public school teachers had only accelerated under the new president.  But in recent years, things had shifted from a caustic conversation about public school teachers to a never-ending squeeze on the job itself. Martha had taught 5th grade for 12 years, and she’d chosen to be a teacher as a calling. But politics and endless cuts were making that original calling next to impossible to accomplish.

And these absurdly high class sizes would only make it worse. Twenty kids had felt like a lot when she’d taught. Twenty-five was far too many. Thirty-two?  Overwhelming. And without the support services to deal with the kids with special needs or acute challenges, total chaos.

“Trey. This isn’t going to be a place of learning anymore. More like a giant day care. Every kid—the smartest included—is going to be held back by all these changes.”

“I know. It all makes me sick as well. That’s why the school board is—“

“—And please don’t tell me about the levy. With what’s happening in our economy, and all these added costs being tacked on, there’s no way voters are going to raise their own property taxes.  It’s been hard enough to pass them in normal years.”

Trey looked back at her and shrugged.

“I’m afraid you may be right.”

“Oh, I’m right.”

* * *

Martha spent the next two hours delivering the binder’s bad news to those directly impacted.

Coaches yelled at her about the added costs of kids playing on their teams. The arts teacher was livid as well.

Classroom teachers complained about the impossibly large class sizes, and the loss of pay due to the elimination of after care. Morale was already terrible, as the new administration was attacking their union itself as illegal. And watching their most experienced colleagues and mentors walk away only made it worse.

“I’m just the messenger,” Martha kept saying.  They said they understood, but still yelled back.

After a quick sandwich and Diet Coke for lunch, the afternoon meetings only grew more painful.

She held a tearful meeting letting the mental health counselors go. They reminisced about the kids they had worked so hard to turn around.

Her meeting with the reading specialist was even tougher. More tears and memories—of Jacob’s remarkable turnaround.

Then she made calls to the YMCA and the “EF Specialist” to let them know they wouldn’t be needed any longer.

Then a call to the Ravenna Police Chief. The SROs, gone too.

The only positive call was with the food bank and local Chamber of Commerce, who agreed to do all they could to help the kids who needed free or reduced-cost lunches.

Just after four, as she ended the Chamber call, a loud commotion boiled up in the hallway outside her office.

She rushed to open her office door. Three young Sheriff’s deputies were marching down the hallway, boxes in their hands. Paige Parker was chasing them from behind, nearly in tears.

Already exhausted and angry from all her meetings, Martha stood in front of the deputies with her hands on her hips.

“Deputies, just what are you doing?”

Paige, huffing heavily, answered first.

“They barged into the library and just started taking my boxes of books.”

Martha threw her hands in the air.

“What on Earth, gentlemen?”

“Ma’m, our sheriff has been tasked by the state and feds to enforce the new rules.”

“Yes. And I’ve tasked our librarian to follow those rules. She’s working diligently to do so.”

The deputy shrugged. “I’m just following orders, Mrs. Sheakley.”

She did a double-take. First. he sounded like her and Trey. They were all “just following orders” while doing terrible things.

But even more jarring was how he addressed her.

Mrs. Sheakley.

The way the students addressed her. She glanced at his name badge: “Mueller.” She’d never taught a Mueller, but the three Mueller boys had all gone through the middle school.

“You may be following orders, but Paige is already removing the books. I watched her doing it this morning.”

He stood taller, towering over her.

“Ma’m, the law is very clear.” He pulled a piece of paper out from his front pocket. “Says it right here. Any books that violate the rules must be destroyed. Keeping them in boxes, or on school property in any way, is a violation of the law. And you all could be arrested as purveyors of pornography.”

Martha steamed. Not only did they have a librarian and principal playing censor, but former students with badges were now doing so as well.

But there was nothing more to say. She and Paige watched as the three deputies walked outside lugging the boxes.

Paige leaned down, and began to cry.

“This is not what I signed up to do,” she said.

Martha hugged her tightly.

“Me neither, Paige. Me neither."

* * *

“Honey, thanks for meeting up tonight. I needed it after the day I had.”

After hearing her exhaustion over the phone, Martha’s husband Nelson suggested they grab dinner and a glass of wine at the Summit Country Club, not far from their home. She didn’t talk about her membership much, but with Nelson’s success as a Cleveland litigator, they’d done well enough financially to join.  It was their one luxury, along with the home they’d recently bought in the well-off suburb halfway between Cleveland and Akron.

“Sounds terrible,” he said as he pulled her chair out. “What did they tell you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just need a break to process it all. How was your day, honey?”

Seconds after Nelson sat down, a server approached them.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Sheakley. Will you do the buffet or order from the menu?”

“Buffet, please,” Martha answered. She was famished. “And a glass of Chardonnay, thank you.”

Minutes later, they entered the line behind several couples—what looked like two wives joining husbands who had just wrapped up rounds of golf. She didn’t recognize them.

Martha shut her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the stress of the day and the painful decisions escape.  But just as that silence eased her, she overhead the conversation in front of her.

One woman was gleefully telling another about her family’s stroke of good fortune.

“Can you believe it? The school confirmed it today. $16,000 off our tuition—this year, and every year later. May even go up. It’s like Christmas in August!”

The woman across the buffet from her laughed. “I know. We’re looking at $24,000 off. We didn’t even realize until the school sent that memo reminding us to to fill out that form.”

“What a blessing! It so helps our church. And Jim and I are hoping to squeeze a cruise out of the savings.”

“Ha! Fred wants a new car, but I told him this was for us both.” She put her harm around a tall, bearded man with still-drying hair who Martha assumed was Fred. “We’ll see what we do with it, right Fred? A cruise definitely sounds nice.”

The man kissed her on the cheek.

Martha bit her lip, holding back all she wanted to tell these people.

She grabbed salad, prime rib, corn on the cob, and a piece of apple pie and returned to her seat.

But after the first nibble of salad, she felt ill and hot and angry all at the same time.

For the next forty minutes, largely in silence, she watched Nelson wolf down his meal.

Fork down, she left her plate untouched.

Cruises. New cars. Churches’ financial well-being.

She scanned the room and wondered what else the kids at Southeast Middle School would be paying for.

Capitol Journal

“Marcus Phillips”

By Randy Stegman

OHIO CITY

“I knew as soon as we pulled into the parking lot that first time.”

Marcus Phillips and his wife Wende sat on one side of the table, holding hands underneath the table top. Talk about an awkward meeting—admitting to strangers you’d been scammed. Worse, that you’d failed as a parent, on something as important as your only child’s education.

Jason Marsh and Cory Matthews sat across from them, looking as sheepish as Marcus felt.

“Yeah, us too,” Jason said. “Dropping your kid off at a strip mall definitely doesn’t feel right.”

“Especially when the place looked nothing like the brochures,” Cory added.

Wende and Marcus nodded in unison.

The two couples were gathered at Lake Erie Coffee in Ohio City, a historic and diverse middle class neighborhood on Cleveland’s near West Side.

They didn’t know each other a month ago, but had bonded in recent weeks as they’d pulled out of the parking lot of their kids’ new school. At first it was exchanging looks of alarm through their car windows. Then they’d shared a few words at the long red light leading back downtown. And now they were swapping notes in person after this morning’s drop-off—and strategizing before their Zoom call at noon.

Jason laid the Blue Ribbon Academy brochure down on the table. Across the top were an American and Ohio flag, accompanied by the words: “The United States and Ohio are sending you thousands to change your child’s future.” In the middle of the mailer was a photo of smiling black and white kids playing on a playground. Then more words: "Use it for the Blue Ribbon Academy, the ideal place for your kids.”

“Yeah, we got that as well,” Marcus said. “Three different times, actually.”

Marcus and Wende had been torn about moving Jamal out of the local public school. They were both proud Cleveland public school grads, and their neighborhood public elementary school had been the perfect fit for Jamal two years ago. But growing class sizes and cuts in support services had made things far more difficult, magnifying the challenges presented by Jamal’s mild ADHD.

Then those Blue Ribbon brochures had peppered their mailbox, along with flashy on-line ads that popped up on both their phones and laptops. They’d followed that up with their own online research, a meeting with a Blue Ribbon representative in downtown Cleveland, and chats with Blue Ribbon parents who’d been provided as references. They looked at other alternatives, but the private schools they knew best were way out of their price range even with the voucher. So they made the switch to Blue Ribbon, which only required the voucher itself to attend.

Jason and Cory had just described their similar journey.

And then came the jarring reality. Dropping off their kids at a seedy strip mall in the middle of cavernous warehouses. Being told that only the kids could enter the school itself. And then the steep downhill plunge that followed.

Jason laid a book on the table, three large dinosaurs on its cover.

“I assume you guys saw this so-called science book.”

He turned to page three, where cartoonish images of modern-looking humans and a brontosaurus appeared in a jungle-like setting.

Wende nodded. “Yes, horrifying. Marcus and I spend three hours in our church every Sunday. Jamal loves his Sunday school. But this is not what we want him taught in school.”

From her bag, Wende took out a “history” book. Pictures of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and the current president were on the cover. She flipped to a page where she’d stuck a yellow sticky note.

“Did you know that most slaveowners treated their slaves well?” she asked sarcastically. "Oh, and this is what they’re teaching Jamal about the civil rights movement….”

She looked down and read out loud: “[M]ost black and white southerners had long lived together in harmony” until “power-hungry individuals stirred up the people.”

Marcus shook his head. “Someone should tell my grandparents about all that harmony. They didn’t get the memo back in Macon. Honey, show them the KKK part…”

Wende turned the page, then read outloud again: ““[The Ku Klux] Klan in some areas of the country tried to be a means of reform…” she paused, shaking. “[F]ghting the decline in morality and using the symbol of the cross. Klan targets were bootleggers, wife-beaters, and immoral movies.”

“Unreal,” Cory said.

Wende hesitated for a moment, then turned to the next yellow tab.

“You probably heard about—“

“Yes we did,” Cory said. “Apparently gay rights are part of a radical social agenda. And we don’t deserve to be treated any better than child molesters.”

Jason shook his head. “When Marisol told the teacher she had two dads, she was warned not to talk about that again.”

“I’m so sorry,” Marcus said.

“We’ve dealt with that in other settings. But not at a school our own tax dollars are paying for. What the hell?”

“Exactly. And have you seen the math material they’re being given?” Marcus asked. "Jamal leaned this stuff two years ago.”

“Same. Marisol is bored. In math and most of their other classes, they just sit by themselves and fill out workbooks all day. Hardly any interaction with students, or even teachers, who apparently leave the room to check in on other classes.”

They stared at each other in silence, the guilt of having failed their kids clearly weighing on all of them.

“So what are we going to do?” Marcus asked.

Cory sipped his coffee, then spoke. “Yesterday, after drop off, we actually met with local public school officials.”

“Nice. What did they say?”

“That they’ve seen these fly-by-night for-profit outfits popping up everywhere, quick to pocket nearly $10,000 per student then doing as little as possible for the students. But since public schools don’t have the funds for counter-marketing, they watch helplessly as families like us switch over and then see our kids’ test scores plummet every year. By the time the kids return to the public schools, they’ve lost years from their education.”

Wende shook her head.

“A friend connected me to a state education official last week. They sang a totally different tune. Said this was all about our choice, like we were buying any other product.”

“Sounds great in theory, until you see false advertising, and this nonsense,” Jason said, holding up the dinosaur book. “Did they care about the materials?”

“Not at all. They said it’s not for the government to police or monitor our choices.  I told them about all the strange spending we’ve seen—fancy Lego sets and lavish furniture—and they just shrugged their shoulders. They don’t even audit how these places spend taxpayer money.”

“Did you mention that memo about corporal punishment?” Jason asked.

That had come last week, which was when the four had decided to meet in person and demand a call with Blue Ribbon Academy higher ups.

“I did. Same response. Nothing they can do.”

* * *

Marcus ran a small music and recording studio five minutes from Lake Erie Coffee. At noon, the four of them sat in his conference room as he turned on a large wall monitor and logged onto the Zoom call, which Blue Ribbon Academy scheduled in 15-minute increments.

A young man in a dark suit appeared alone in a small conference room, a Blue Ribbon Academy banner hanging behind him. The words “Shane Malloy, Austin TX” appeared on the bottom of the Zoom screen.

“How can we help you?” Shane asked, a plastic smile on his tan face.

Marcus had sat in on a lot of sales calls in his career. And that’s what this felt like, as opposed to a school meeting.

“Well, as we filled out on the electronic ticket, we share a number of concerns about your Academy in Cleveland.”

“Oh,” he smiled. “We are so excited to be in your great city. And our principal tells me things are off to a great start. What seems to be the problem?”

“Is that right?” Wende asked. “We haven’t met him yet.”

Silence from the other end.

Marcus chimed in.

“To begin, some of the curriculum seems way off for the year 2025.”

“How so?” Shane asked, a look of skepticism on his face.

“Well,” Marcus said, “dinosaurs and human beings coexisting, for one.  And some of your history units are really distorting American history.”

Young Shane didn’t flinch.

“We’re sorry you feel that way. We strive to bring only the best and most rigorous materials and values to our students. And unlike many public schools, we also believe it’s important to bring a variety of perspectives—the same perspectives our students will encounter in the real world.”

“We also are concerned by the minimal interaction with actual teachers,” Jason added.

“Oh,” the man said. “Our mix of self-study and teacher engagement is also something we take pride in. Blue Ribbon students are taught to be independent. Self-starters. And years of research back up our approach.”

Marcus sighed. This kid’s answers were so rehearsed, just like the pitch they’d gotten when they’d looked into Blue Ribbon in the first place. Everything was research-backed. Everything was “a best practice.”  They had all the lingo down, and presented it professionally. It sounded great on the surface.

“But these are third graders,” Wende said. “They need adult guidance. Supervision”

“Of course. And they receive it. We think very carefully about this mix.”

This kid had an answer for everything. These people were going to dupe so many.

“Is there any meeting we can go to to raise our concerns? With leaders of the company? Like a school board meeting?”

Shane chuckled.

“Sir, we are based in Austin, which is why we set this up as a Zoom. But Blue Ribbon Academy is a private company, so our board meetings are private. Not for the public.”

“Public?” Jason said. “We are parents. And it’s our dollars that are being sent to pay for it all.”

“No need to get testy sir. We appreciate the state of Ohio’s investment in our work, along with the choice you’ve made to direct your allocated state funds our way.”

“So what can we do about our concerns?” Marcus asked.

“You’re doing it,” he said enthusiastically. “This our customer feedback process. Your concerns will be noted in your school’s file. If changes are deemed worthy, you will see them in the near future.”

“And that’s it?”

He smiled.

“That is our process.”

Shane looked at this watch.

“My next appointment is in 3 minutes. Do have any other concerns you’d like to raise?”

Only three minutes, and they had so much more to say. Marcus didn’t know where to start.

But Shane filled the silence.

“Oh, one thing. Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, one of our counselors determined that your son Jamal faces challenges due to ADHD….”

Finally, Marcus thought. The individualized attention they were looking for.

“…Is that right?” Shane asked.

“Yes. That’s one reason we tried Blue Ribbon. The extra attention he once received at his public school was eliminated.”

Shane frowned.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, sir. But our team worries a student with his needs may distract from other students’ learning. I’m afraid Jamal is not a good fit for Blue Ribbon”

Wende squeezed Marcus’s hand. Jamal may have struggled to keep up once his prior school had ripped away added counseling. But he’d never once caused a problem for other students.

“After we’re done,” Shane continued, “you will get an email connecting you to our transfer team. Thank you again for your time.”

Marcus fumed, the lesson of recent months finally clear.

Not a good fit, Shane had said.

The young man had summed it up perfectly.

Fancy private schools were now cheaper, but only for those who could already afford them.

The low-flying for-profits like Blue Ribbon were not only terrible, but they weren’t about to spend dollars or time on kids like Jamal.

And as the public schools were hemorrhaging money to vouchers, they no longer could meet Jamal’s needs.

In America’s new system of education, their beautiful son Jamal no longer fit anywhere.