I love teaching, but I’ll likely quit this year. Here’s why.

I love teaching, but at the end of this year, I will likely quit. Quit Strawberry Mansion High School, where I teach. Quit the school district. Quit teaching altogether.

Kids love school, even the teenagers of Strawberry Mansion. I’ve lost count of the students who’ve said they’ll never return, only to sheepishly creep in the next day. But a school has to love its children back, and I’m not sure the School District of Philadelphia loves all of its children.

In the coming weeks, Mayor Cherelle L. Parker will make decisions on school board appointments. These decisions will have a profound impact, as the policies of district leadership trickle down not only to the children and families of our city but also to teachers like me, who teach with our full hearts.

I’m bracing myself for what will come, but after years of being disappointed, I’m tired. I’m tired of watching bad decisions hurt our most vulnerable kids, especially those with disabilities. I’m tired of watching the ever-churning machine of systemic oppression eat my students whole.

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The Philadelphia school system is broken in many ways. A history of inequitable funding lingers in asbestos-filled walls and broken air-conditioners. With Lower Merion’s per-pupil spending and Advanced Placement classes just seven miles away, there is no hiding from the institutional injustices my students face. One hundred percent of students at Strawberry Mansion are considered “economically disadvantaged.” Nearly half qualify for an individualized education program, or IEP, a plan designed to support students with disabilities. At Carver High School of Engineering and Science, which students must apply to get into, that number is just 5%.

Many of the students at Mansion sit in the middle of the intersectionality of race, disability, and poverty; they are an especially vulnerable population that we, as educators, should be purposeful in our efforts to protect. Yet I watch as my students are pushed aside by the district intended to serve them — through suspensions that turn into dropouts, disciplinary placements that aren’t so temporary, and the ensnaring tentacles of the justice system.

There is a substantial body of research that shows the inequitable use of discipline on students of color and those with disabilities. Among children with disabilities, one in four of those who are Black will be suspended at least once, but among white children, only one in 11 receive the same punishment.

Each time a student is kicked out of their school — either via a suspension, alternative placement, or “disciplinary” transfer — there can be enormous consequences. A short suspension may seem harmless, but each removal of a student from their educational environment increases the likelihood they will drop out or come in contact with the police.

There is even a name for how we marginalize our students out of school and into cells: the school-to-prison pipeline. Students are funneled from their regular schools into disciplinary and juvenile placements and then pushed toward incarceration. The students we pick for this are those we find the most challenging, the most difficult to understand — the ones who don’t listen and test our patience. They may love their school, but it won’t love them back. The unrequited love of the school system burns them the worst.

Not surprisingly, students with disabilities are overrepresented in our justice system. At the Philadelphia Juvenile Justice Services Center, 46% of students have an IEP. At Pennypack House, a school for teens facing adult charges, 57% of students have an IEP.

The best thing for kids at risk of falling into the justice system is to keep them in school, as research has found that a student’s connection to school is a “protective” factor that reduces their risk of entering the school-to-prison pipeline. But instead of protecting our most vulnerable students from this future, we add to their risk. During the 2021-22 school year, 26% of district students involved in disciplinary incidents had an IEP, despite comprising less than 16% of the student population. For 2022-23, 50% of district students identified as Black, but 65% of student “offenders” were Black.

As educators, we see the realities of these disparities in our hallways every day. To us, those statistics aren’t numbers; they are children. We say their names and smile at them each morning. How many students will get pushed aside before we start real conversations around how to serve them?

I know my absence will be a loss for my students. But I don’t belong in public school anymore.

I became a special education teacher because I acutely remember being 12 years old in math class, having the feeling of “This is not the place for me.” I tried to reel in my ADHD brain, like leashing a wild dog. I want my students to know that different isn’t less, needs aren’t weaknesses, and every brain is beautiful.

I am a true believer. I believe in special education and individualization. I believe in doing my job the right way in compliance with state and federal laws written by people smarter than me. I believe that, with special education, we see students — especially our most challenging ones — flourish instead of flounder. Yet, here I am, standing in a classroom and thinking, “This is not the place for me.”

As Mayor Parker begins her tenure, I am pleading for change. I need her and other leaders to overhaul our discipline system so students aren’t sent to alternative placements for nonviolent behaviors. I need her to instill in our schools the values of restorative justice, with a commitment beyond lip service to making it work. I need her to stress accountability so that every student with an IEP receives an appropriate education, even if that looks different or messy or takes more patience, labor, and time.

The city teachers’ union has a role to play, too. Retiring union president Jerry Jordan acknowledged that the rate of Philly teachers leaving the classroom is largely due to inadequate working conditions, yet he offered no action to address this exodus. In the post-pandemic transition back to buildings, there was no influx of counselors, social workers, or community partners, only students in the midst of grief and mental health crises exhibiting challenging behaviors in underequipped schools. I hope the incoming union leadership is able to effectively advocate for working conditions that support both the best interests of teachers and students. As teachers, we need to see that student mental health needs are adequately addressed so we know our lessons can have an impact. Only then will we be able to stay in our jobs without watching the students we love struggle as we helplessly stand by.

I need Parker to do all this so I can focus on my students while knowing their rights are protected, so I can teach them to read without worrying they’ll be suspended once they cross the threshold out of my room. I want to focus on imbuing in my students the power their education provides. But I need them here, in school, not at home, not at a disciplinary placement, not sitting in an overcrowded juvenile justice cell.

I need her to make space for my students in our schools. I can teach them — just let them in and, please, let them stay.

Colleen Gibbons-Brown is a special educator who has taught middle and high school students for the past seven years. She has taught in public and charter schools across Baltimore and Philadelphia school districts.