Seated in groups of three or four on folding chairs spread around the gym at Bayard Middle School, teachers in the Christina School District learned a little more about the lives of their students and their families last week.
For nearly two hours, the teachers were teleported from Wilmington into Realville, a make-believe town where the problems of poverty are all too real.
“This is not a game. It may seem like Monopoly but it is not,” intoned Deb Stevens, director of instructional advocacy for the Delaware State Education Association, as she began to describe how the simulation would work.
Each set of chairs represented a home, and the teachers sitting together represented a family unit. Each family had a different composition and a different set of problems. Most were single-family arrangements; in many cases, a parent was disabled or incarcerated. In some instances, an elderly grandparent was the head of household.
Arrayed around the perimeter of the gym were tables representing institutions critical to each family’s day-to-day existence: the bank, the grocery store, the utility company, the school, the daycare center, the employer, the social services agency, the health clinic, the police station and the pawn shop/payday loan store. Staff members from DSEA, nonprofit and education organizations and volunteers played the roles of bankers, merchants and social workers.
Stevens recited the goals for the family units: keep the home secure, make sure everyone gets fed, keep the utilities on, report to work on time, pay all the bills, and make sure the children are in school or cared for.
The simulation, which will be offered to other teacher groups throughout the year, is funded through a three-year, $250,000 grant the DSEA received from the National Education Association, its parent organization. A community action network in Missouri created the simulation and has made the materials available to organizations throughout the country, according to DSEA President Mike Matthews, who spent the morning role-playing as Realville’s neighborhood drug dealer.
Over four 15-minute “weeks,” with 5-minute “weekend” breaks in between, the teachers would learn to experience living in poverty. And they had to realistically play the roles assigned to them – pouting like a 7-year-old, arguing like a teenager, wondering why as a grandparent you’re the primary caregiver for a 10-year-old. The full-time jobs didn’t pay much; part-time work paid less; and arriving late for work meant you might not get paid at all. Every visit to one of the stores or offices required a transportation pass, which had to be purchased at the bank or the loan store. “Luck of the draw” cards in each family’s packet of instructions, much like the “Chance” cards in Monopoly, could bring good news or bad – a winning lottery ticket or an unanticipated bill.
At the bank, the tellers – education advocate Tizzy Lockman and Christina Education Association President Darren Tyson – played strictly by the rules. If you want to cash your paycheck, you have to open an account first; otherwise, you have to go to the payday loan store and pay a check-cashing fee. And, if you are cashing a check, any loan payments will be deducted first.
Down at the pawn shop, Bayard teacher Valerie Jermusyk, playing the role of a 13-year-old twin whose 21-year-old brother was in charge while their father was incarcerated for 45 days, was experiencing the stress of a child taking on adult tasks while being taken advantage of by an adult. Jermusyk approached the shop owner with a card representing a sofa valued at $100. She needed the money to meet the week’s expenses, but the man offered her only $25. “You may think it’s worth $100, but I can’t use it,” he said. They haggled for a few minutes, as others waited impatiently behind her, before Jermusyk left the shop with $50. That wasn’t enough for the family to get through the week. No one got to the grocery store in time, and she was next seen with an “I am hungry” sign hanging around her neck.
Not far away, four chairs representing a home were turned on their sides. “Didn’t have the money to pay the rent,” a teacher explained.
At the school, students predictably acted out in a crowded classroom, with some jumping out of their seats and tossing wads of paper at each other while others tried to recite the alphabet. Students who became unruly or cut school were escorted across the gym to the Realville jail by the town’s police officer, played by Tammy Croce, executive director of the Delaware Association of School Administrators.
At one point during the simulation, Croce was holding a baby doll, representing a year-old child. The police officer had been called to the childcare center to take the baby into her care because its mother hadn’t picked her up at the end of the day.
When the simulation concluded, teachers broke into groups to discuss what they had learned from their experiences.
“I felt guilty at times. I wanted my daughter to have a better situation,” said one teacher, who played a parent during the exercise.
“My daughter was incarcerated, my husband was on disability,” said a teacher who played the role of a grandmother. “I felt like why am I going through this, I’ve already raised a child.” The exercise gave her a better understanding of the challenges poor families face, and gave her a new appreciation for the importance of collaboration.
“It helps teachers understand the difficulties their students face every day,” says Croce, a teacher for 13 years and an administrator for 19 before taking her current job. “It would have been extremely helpful to me when I started 35 years ago.”
“The program was a great way to practice empathy. Most of us have not walked in the same shoes as our students. The stress, pressure, chaos and trauma that children have to endure is unfathomable, a simulation doesn't even compare,” Jermusyk said afterwards. “But if I can bring more compassion and structure into the classroom, I believe the students will know that I care about them and their learning.”
Bayard teacher Rochelda Adderley summed up the program succinctly, calling it “the best professional development we ever had.”
