KEAAU, HAWAII 鈥� In terms of quantifying school failure, at least by Department of Education standards, Nawahiokalaniopuu Iki is nearly unbeatable.

The school, whose student body is among the poorest in the state, earned just 20 points out of a possible 400 on Strive HI, the state’s new system for measuring student achievement and improvement. Statewide, the school 鈥� Nawahi for short 鈥� ranked 287th out of 288 public schools.

So are the students dejected?

Hardly. The “failing” score is a political weapon 鈥� and a source of Hawaiian pride at Nawahi.

Nawahi is one of 20 schools in the state where a total of about 2,400 students learn in Hawaiian, not English. These Hawaiian immersion programs are publicly funded, and many are housed on regular public school campuses. Six of the immersion programs are charter schools, meaning they operate under their own, independent governing boards. (Nawahi’s K-8 levels are part of the charter system; its high school is not.)

The three-decades-old Nawahi has spearheaded the movement to revitalize the Hawaiian language by establishing immersion schools that are a form of blowback against what activists see as a generations-long strategic effort to extinguish the Native Hawaiian identity. It is why activists eventually responded by rallying at the state Capitol and boycotting regular public schools to make their voices heard.

While Hawaii in 1978 adopted a constitutional amendment requiring that its public education system promote the Hawaiian language and culture 鈥� and also 鈥� on-the-ground change was slow to follow. Linguistics scholars, including Nawahi Principal Kauanoe Kamana, estimate that by 1983 fewer than 50 children . The state’s complicity was apparent; it didn’t banning the Hawaiian language from public and private schools until 1986.

Regardless of the actual number of young Hawaiian speakers at the time, one thing was clear: the language was dying.

Civil Beat is profiling Nawahi as part of our series, Learning Hilo, with visits to several schools in and around the Hilo area that serve as snapshots of Hawaii’s diverse charter landscape. About half of the state’s 33 charter schools offer education that’s anchored in Hawaiian language or culture. Many of those schools are in Hawaii County, which is home to the largest percentage of Native Hawaiians in the state.

Road to Resurgence

, a 30-something teacher with a hibiscus flower in her long black hair, sits on a bench at Nawahi in an outdoor walkway as students speak fluid Hawaiian nearby.

Harman’s experiences parallel the fading and resurgence of Hawaiian culture over several generations.

She expresses pride in her great-grandmother, Mary Kawena Pukui, a co-author of the Hawaiian Dictionary, and yet, as Harman grew up in Honolulu and attended Sacred Hearts Academy and then Kamehameha Schools, she only spoke broken Hawaiian.

She only reconnected with that core aspect of Hawaiian culture and her family traditions as an adult, learning to speak it fluently in college after deciding that the language was a calling for her.

But if it is a calling, why is it leading to the school’s abject failure by DOE standards? The vast majority of Nawahi parents in recent years have taken a stand against those standards. Most children, with their parents’ consent, don’t take the state’s standardized test. The result: they earn a zero and weigh down the school’s collective score so heavily that it sinks to the bottom.

Forget teaching to the test; Nawahi is actively fighting it. And Harman isn’t some sort of arm-chair warrior driving the parents into a battle she wouldn’t fight. After some agonizing, she concluded that her three children in grades two, three and seven would all opt out of the tests. She fretted over the reaction of friends and relatives, but discovered that what she saw as a tough decision only garnered their admiration and support.

For her, it is about the school, the education and the culture, not some tests imposed from outside that are not very relevant to local lives. The campus where she teaches 鈥� and that her three children study at 鈥� is more than just a school. Nawahi is a way of life, she says 鈥� a political movement, an ohana. She spends long nights working on-site and has largely raised her children there.

“Now it’s just a matter of providing a venue through which it (the Hawaiian language) can be re-taught to these families,” she said. “I would love to see it in my lifetime where we鈥檙e not a novelty.”

Who’s Failing, the Kids or the Test?

The air was still and quiet at Nawahi earlier in the morning as a stream of students flowed in to start the school day. Amid the hand-holding by parents and children, siblings, and even among students, there was hardly a word of English.

At 8 a.m. the school鈥檚 students gathered under a gazebo-style roof on the front lanai. All but two of them 鈥� Civil Beat‘s translators, Kaohu and Makamae, both 16-year-old juniors 鈥� joined in oli (chants) and songs as part of “morning protocol.”

At immersion schools such as Nawahi, students learn every subject, even foreign languages, in Hawaiian. The first English class doesn’t come until the fifth grade. Nawahi strictly enforces its Hawaiian-only policy; one student recalled how in younger grades children had to do push-ups on the rocks if they were caught speaking English.

Critics 鈥� including some state education officials 鈥� question the fairness of assessing immersion students by the same metrics used to evaluate students in English schools, especially since Hawaiian is an official state language. The state has already dedicated millions of dollars trying to develop Hawaiian-language assessments 鈥� including a $1 million allocation this year just to translate new Common Core standards 鈥� but immersion advocates say those tests have been rife with incorrect grammar and other problems.

Immersion schools face a myriad of challenges, perhaps the most high-profile and contentious involving the largely philosophical debate over standardized testing. All of Hawaii鈥檚 public schools are subject to federal and state testing requirements that government officials say offer one of the only feasible means of keeping educators accountable, gauging progress and coordinating interventions for struggling students.

But that requirement is particularly thorny for schools that teach in a language whose underlying world view makes it difficult to assess through standardized tests originally designed for English-speaking students.

So, over the past five or so years, the number of students who opted out of testing has increased. Last year, just 19 of Nawahi’s 138 charter students sat for the exams.

And yet, by other conventional benchmarks, Nawahi鈥檚 children are excelling, which is all the more impressive considering that two out of every three children are low-income. Not surprisingly, almost all of the school鈥檚 students 鈥� 97 percent 鈥� identify as Native Hawaiian, a demographic that tends to underperform, according to conventional academic metrics.

The education offered at Nawahi is rigorous, with students required to take college courses starting in their junior year and the English-language PSAT and SAT as they gear up for college. Nawahi has its own assessments based on Hawaiian learning methods. (Nawahi is an official “laboratory school” for teachers training at the University of Hawaii at Hilo鈥檚 College of Hawaiian Language.)

According to Kamana, Nawahi also enjoys a rare 100 percent graduation rate. But since its 46 high school students are technically enrolled at Hilo High (just its K-8 grades are contracted as a separate charter school), that rate isn’t factored into the school鈥檚 Strive HI score. The school also boasts an impressive 80 percent college-going rate with some students graduating on to Stanford and Oxford universities. This May the school earned a six-year accreditation from the Western Association of Schools and Colleges. (Just 15 of the state鈥檚 33 charter schools are accredited, with another 10 currently seeking to join them.)

“We鈥檙e saying we have ,” Kamana explained.

This all places the state in something of a pickle over how to assess the school. Hawaii Department of Education Superintendent Kathryn Matayoshi wrote a letter to Nawahi Principal Kauanoe Kamana this August commending the school鈥檚 achievement and acknowledging the school doesn鈥檛 belong at the bottom of the Strive HI index.

“It鈥檚 not an easy task and unfortunately will take more time to find a solution,” she wrote, explaining that at the end of the day the DOE is bound by federal accountability requirements. “But I am hopeful and determined.”

Schools at the bottom are required to implement specific intervention measures that Nawahi might have to fund from its current budget.

Nawahi鈥檚 operating budget is $2.3 million for the school’s K-8 grades, most of which comes from standard state and federal sources, but 18 percent is funded by grants from Kamehameha Schools (which gives $1,500 per student to 17 Hawaiian-focused or immersion charter schools throughout the state).

But Cheryl Lupenui, who chairs the Board of Education鈥檚 student achievement committee and is the only Native Hawaiian on the board, is less worried about funding issues than she is about the small number of students in the immersion programs. Lupenui is working on developing a new approach to Hawaiian education.

“We only have (2,400) students,鈥� she said, noting that being raised on the East Coast gave a special appreciation for her cultural mooring. “This is shocking to me.”

‘Not Interested in English’

Skepticism remains over whether immersion schools are setting students up for failure in a 21st-Century English-speaking country.

It’s a challenge that Tom Hutton, executive director of the state Charter School Commission, has been grappling with since taking over earlier this year. “This is a complicated issue and there are good people on every side who have good, noble motives looking out for the educational interests of kids and rejuvenating a language that was almost deliberately obliterated.”

Harman, for her part, said the skepticism just makes her “work extra hard at what I do.”

“(Their achievement) is not going to be measured by a standardized test in English,” she noted. “However, I know when they leave my classroom they鈥檙e prepared beyond the level that I was prepared at an English-speaking school at sixth grade.”

While there are questions about how much basic education students get, it is clear that they bask in Hawaiian values, which are visible in how the children carry themselves and in the traditions and symbols that surround them on campus.

Graduation week involves rituals that include a 10-mile walk to the grave of Joseph Nawahi, a prominent 19th-century Native Hawaiian government official after whom the school was named; the school鈥檚 original campus and the first Hawaiian-language preschool in Hilo town; a swim around the nearby Coconut Island without coming up for air; and a ceremony in which the mothers present each graduate with a three-color 24-inch feather lei that students start sewing in their sophomore year.

Meanwhile, the lines between the campus and the local community blur in many ways. Many, if not most, of the teachers are also parents of students and the school encourages Hawaiian language use at home among parents. Hawaiian-language courses are also open to the community one day each week.

“Speaking Hawaiian is our life … it鈥檚 our heart and without Hawaiian I wouldn鈥檛 be here today,” explained 14-year-old Kaleihalia, whose first language, like a third of his peers, is Hawaiian. “They can think what they want to think, but there鈥檚 going to have a time-point when the Hawaiian language is going to be out there.”

The boy feels like he’s on a mission to help restore the Hawaiian language in the islands. Such fervor, he says, is a “family thing” 鈥� his mom also works at Nawahi. And it goes far: “I鈥檓 not interested in English.”

Hawaiian Activism Remorse

But some believe the current immersion program exists inside of a bubble.

, a linguist and Hawaiian language professor at UH Manoa, was at the Oahu immersion movement鈥檚 front lines. He was an early foot soldier, marching with his wife and two young sons to then-Gov. John Waihee鈥檚 office to rally for Hawaiian immersion programs before the state piloted two such schools in 1987.

Wong enrolled his first two sons, now adults, in that program. But by the time his third son, now 11, reached school age, Wong had a change of heart.

“Hawaiian language was in a desperate situation at the time so that (politics) was the focus,” he said.

But politics came to dominate the movement to the point where it may have “superseded” general education. Wong decided to enroll his youngest son at Kamehameha Schools after concluding that the quality of education at immersion schools 鈥� at least those on Oahu 鈥� didn鈥檛 cut it.

“I know people would be up in arms … looking at me as a sellout,” Wong said, emphasizing that he’s only speaking as a parent and professor who interacts with students who’ve graduated from immersion schools. “It was difficult because I had these illusions of my own identity being a certain thing and I had to go against that … I got disillusioned, not with the concept but with the execution.”

Wong wonders whether the movement鈥檚 vision for Hawaiian immersion has failed to take into account pressing philosophical and linguistic barriers, particularly the fundamental, often irreconcilable differences between Hawaiian and Western world views and expressions.

“We don鈥檛 want to just translate our English into Hawaiian, and let that be it,鈥� Wong said. 鈥淲e鈥檙e speaking English in Hawaiian, and if that鈥檚 the case it doesn鈥檛 matter how fluent you are. You鈥檙e not reaching your goal.”

Nonetheless, Wong doesn鈥檛 regret his involvement in the movement.

“That鈥檚 what we were forced into doing in a way,” he said, adding that Hawaiian immersion education 鈥渨asn鈥檛 being provided, so that was the only option 鈥� well, the option that we thought of at the time.”

Harman, back on the bench outside of her sixth-grade classroom, acknowledged that schools such as Nawahi may not be suitable to everyone. “A lot of people still feel like it is such a gamble and … in its experimental stages,” she said.

But, she added, “Nawahi really gives a lot of hope to a lot of people. Even if (some parents) don鈥檛 send their kids here, in the back of their minds they鈥檙e always rooting for us.”

Read other stories in this five-part series:

• Learning Hilo 鈥� The Turnaround
• Learning Hilo 鈥� School’s In
• Learning Hilo 鈥� The Bucket List
• Learning Hilo 鈥� The New Voyage

The post Learning Hilo 鈥� Defending Hawaii appeared first on 天美视频.

HILO, HAWAII聽鈥� Downtown Hilo looks like it’s frozen in time. Low, modest buildings are deteriorating relics of the sugar plantation era. The streets are usually quiet and free of traffic. Palm trees line a main boulevard that runs along the normally calm Hilo bay.

Hilo’s plantation heyday is hardly more than a memory. The Big Island’s last sugar plantation closed in 1995, and since then the area has for the most part found itself in a prolonged slump. Today, Hilo has the , according to a UH Center on the Family study. It is home to a large number of “idle teens” 鈥� those age 16 through 19 who are not in school or employed, and UH data indicates that more than half of teenagers in the area grow up without sufficient parental supervision. lives below the poverty level, many of them in single-mother households, according to U.S. Census data. For children under the age of five, that percentage rises to nearly 30 percent, which is double the state average.

And then there is the material impact: the median household income in the town is about $53,000, $14,000 less than state’s median, Census data shows.

It is enough to make people wonder what, if any, future the children here will have. “A fundamental question that all of the Big Island asks is, ‘Will our youth be able to live and make a living on the Big Island?” said Jim Shon, director of the University of Hawaii at Manoa’s .

Hilo, he added, is “a town that seems to want to fade.”

The challenge at Connections, a high-poverty K-12 charter school partially housed in downtown Hilo鈥檚 81-year-old Kress Building, is to help make sure that doesn鈥檛 happen. It is no easy task. After all, about three-fourths of the school’s 359 students are low-income and eligible for free or discounted lunches, and many are from broken homes without positive male role models, according to the principal, John Thatcher.

With a long white ponytail and constant smile, Thatcher, a former public school teacher, looks like a cool uncle who might have once enjoyed rocking out on stage. He seems to know almost every student by name and floats between groups of kids, engaging them in conversation.

Thatcher thinks of Connections as a microcosm of Hilo鈥檚 diversity. He envisions a place where everyone gets along and respects each other and where students develop creativity and confidence that they鈥檒l export to the outside world as adults. He also sees Connections as a safe zone the kids choose to come to, rather than resorting to drugs or crime.

Making Connections

At Connections, teachers work to create self-confident autonomous kids who can 鈥� and want to 鈥� break down barriers, think outside the box and thrive regardless of the economic and social hardships around them.

A core tenet of Connections’ philosophy on education is simple: make learning fun so kids want to attend school. Think of it as teaching way beyond the test. On any given school day, clusters of children are dispersed throughout the colorful first floor of the Kress Building reading scripts for a theater class in a corner of the cafeteria, writing in their daily journals or doing research for self-driven projects, oftentimes with the help of the books that line nearly every wall. After school, the building turns into an open playground where kids can dance and sing, create and produce. For many, school doesn’t really end until dinnertime, as dusk settles on the ocean-side boulevard.

And that seems to be the way the students like it. At Connections, school’s in. About 100 kids are on the school’s waiting list.

It鈥檚 all about “educating the whole child,” explains Thatcher after school as a group of teenage boys gathered on a makeshift stage, taking turns breakdancing to 鈥�90s hip-hop music and sparking applause from an energized crowd. “These kids are just being the way kids are these days.”

Students at Connections display a dizzying medley of skills and interests, experiences and dreams, from singing and musical theater to engineering and design. Their stories seem to come together gradually, like the pieces of a puzzle. Staff understand the importance of giving them the opportunity to believe and invest in their own talents and goals.

They’re Hilo’s next generation, the kids who Thatcher and others hope won’t let the town fade.

Civil Beat’s Learning Hilo Series

Civil Beat is profiling Connections and other charter schools in and around the Hilo area as part of its five-part education series, Learning Hilo. The series takes a closer look at a handful of the state’s 33 charter schools, most of which serve large populations of low-income students and about half of which are geared toward revitalizing the Native Hawaiian culture, either through Hawaiian-language schooling or values-based instruction.

The majority of Connections’ students are very poor and, although most students are of mixed ethnicity, 39 percent identify as Native Hawaiian. (Special education is also a prominent feature at the school where 14 percent are in special ed, compared with a statewide average of less than 10 percent.)

The kids come from throughout the Big Island鈥檚 eastern corridor, from Kau to Hamakua. The school has three of its own buses 鈥� a $28,600 investment Thatcher said was worth making in order to assure that all kids, no matter their location, have access to a quality education. The school spends about $35,000 each year maintaining the buses, too.

Connections does a lot with little 鈥� and despite a track record of legal disputes that placed its financial integrity in question, including a high-profile conflict-of-interest case that went before the state Ethics Commission late last year. The commission found that school employee Eric Boyd, who also owns and runs a food service business, engaged in more than two dozen ethics violations since 2006, including signing off on payments to himself as the vendor of the school meals. The Ethics Commission argued that the dispute raised important questions about charter schools whose finances existed at the time in something of a gray area, and therefore the outcome of the proceedings had the capacity to set precedents for the state. Boyd was initially fined $10,000, but after an appeal the state agreed to reduce the fine. The new amount is still being negotiated, Thatcher said.

Thatcher vehemently disagrees with the commission’s decision, saying it was a “witch hunt” spearheaded by a disgruntled former employee who had been fired. According to Thatcher, charter schools were exempt from the state procurement code and Boyd was merely trying to save the school money. Boyd still works at Connections.

Facility Woes

Like all charter schools, Connections doesn鈥檛 get any additional money from the state for facilities, which Thatcher says really stretches the school thin considering the high costs for goods and services. The after-school program, for example, costs $95,000 per year. On a larger scale, the school鈥檚 nonprofit arm , which underwent large-scale renovations in 1995, for $2.25 million in 2006 and leases some of the units out to a handful of tenants, including a movie theater and Indian restaurant. The school cafeteria contains the remnants of the vintage soda fountain that once stood in its place. Connections’ annual operating budget is $2.98 million, which appears to be comparable to other schools.

But the three-story Kress Building, which only has enough room to serve the school鈥檚 K-8 classes, is cramped; its two main classroom spaces each hold three grade levels separated only by improvised partitions. Teachers must coordinate their schedules to avoid holding noisy activities that might disrupt other classes in the same room.

The building also lacks ventilation. A layer of heat permeates administrative offices located on the building鈥檚 top floor, leaving most afternoons in the section unbearable. There鈥檚 also a gaping hole in part of the ceiling, which offers an open view of water and termite damage the building has suffered over the years.

Meanwhile, classes for Connections鈥� high school students are held at a temporary campus that is a 12-minute drive away. Thatcher鈥檚 efforts to develop a permanent campus closer to the Kress Building have so far succumbed to numerous roadblocks, including a scathing campaign to stop the construction that has been described as a form of by residents who generally oppose development in the area.

After the normal school day ends, the school transports from there to Connections鈥� Kress campus where the second floor is home to a brand-new after-school program for students in grades six through 12. The program is free. as it鈥檚 called, was launched in July as the first U.S. offshoot of New Zealand鈥檚 . The network鈥檚 mission is to empower young people and encourage them to fulfill their potential through after-school activities that link cultural knowledge with technology.

At 鈥淪tudio Shaka,鈥� kids choose what they want to do for the afternoon. The music room is a favorite among even the most timid children, while in the computer room kids can edit and produce short movies. But 鈥淭he Makery鈥� room might be the most popular. There, students have access to a range of high-tech equipment purchased with outside grants 鈥� including laptops equipped with top-notch software, a laser cutter and a 3-D printer 鈥� to turn computerized graphic designs into objects made out of materials such as wood and plastic. The walls of the Makery are lined with dusty book shelves that exhibit past student work 鈥� boxes, earring holders, masks and an intricate three-way chessboard whose design was invented by a high school student.

The activities provide positive outlets for students, allowing them to unleash their creativity and gain confidence in skills they might not otherwise have the opportunity to harness, said Kris Kua, who coordinates the Studio Shaka program.

He regularly posts videos and photos featuring student work on social media and the Studio Shaka website. 鈥淲e鈥檙e capturing their greatness and then showcasing it and sharing it,鈥� Kua said.

Creations and Careers

On paper, Connections is performing on par with other schools in the state. Seventy-three percent of its students met reading proficiency last school year, exceeding the statewide goal of 71 percent. But the school failed to meet the state鈥檚 math proficiency benchmark of 60 percent, with only 47 percent of its students proficient.

Still, Thatcher points to the $1.25 million in grants the school has received from private and public sources as evidence that the community believes in the school鈥檚 core mission of producing the next generation of innovators who are passionate about making the world 鈥� or at least their world 鈥� a better place. And Studio Shaka is the newest chapter of a two-decade-long effort to achieve that mission.

In the Makery, students were busy at work with their inventions. One student watched as the 3-D printer built a plastic case he made for his USB thumb drive. Another was making a puzzle in a sophisticated graphic design program, clicking her mouse as she shifted the cursor around lines on the computer screen. Nearby, a girl displayed a box containing dozens of intricate wooden earrings that she designed with the laser cutter, jewelry that she would sell later that week for $7 each at a booth at the downtown Hilo Art Walk.

Bill Thorpe, the teacher who oversees the program, said the Makery is sort of like a blank canvas where anything goes. Most of the objects created in the Makery, according to Thorpe, are the result of students鈥� original designs. He urges them to create objects that they will actually use in the real world.

鈥淚 always say, 鈥榠f you see or feel frustration that鈥檚 where the need is,鈥欌�� Thorpe said, pointing to a decorative board that one student made to hold keys. 鈥淚t points the students to a career rather than a job.鈥�

UH Manoa College of Education professor Neil Scott recently teamed up with Connections to open a similar makery in downtown Hilo, where students can create products to sell. Several of Connections鈥� students have already secured internships at the shop.

Up on the second-floor hallway, music continued to echo.

Eighth-grader Gracie Rogers, a slim, soft-spoken girl, said she transferred to Connections because she didn鈥檛 fit in at the private school she attended previously. Sitting in a green chair, she soulfully sang an iconic song by The Animals that includes a warning to the next generation about a life squandered in self-destructive partying. Her twin brother Tate, his brows furrowed and lips pursed with concentration, played an electric guitar.

The lyrics of the song? “Oh mother tell your children/Not to do what I have done/Spend your lives in sin and misery/In the House of the Rising Sun.”

Read other stories in this five-part series:

• Learning Hilo 鈥� The Turnaround
• Learning Hilo 鈥� Defending Hawaii
• Learning Hilo 鈥� The Bucket List
• Learning Hilo 鈥� The New Voyage

The post Learning Hilo 鈥� School’s In appeared first on 天美视频.

MOUNTAIN VIEW, HAWAII 鈥� At 5:45 each school morning, Daniel Caluya wakes up the homeless people and transient drug addicts who are camped out in the open-air walkways. After encouraging them to move on, he collects and discards needles and other paraphernalia. Then Caluya welcomes roughly 130 elementary school children to the Na Wai Ola campus.

Caluya 鈥� or “Mr. C,” as most of the kids know him 鈥� is the principal of Na Wai Ola, a public charter school near Hilo on the eastern slopes of Mauna Loa, wedged between fertile, banana tree-lined pastures in the quiet Big Island town of Mountain View.

There, Caluya, 52, is helping the school overcome challenges that many principals can hardly imagine.

Na Wai Ola is located in the heart of Puna, one of the poorest districts in the state. Data from the 2009 American Community Survey indicates that Mountain View and the neighboring towns of Pahoa, Kalapana and Keaau 鈥� where many of Na Wai Ola鈥檚 students live 鈥� are among the five poorest areas in the state. An average of roughly one in four residents of those towns lives below the poverty line; that鈥檚 about two times the statewide poverty rate, according to U.S. Census data.

The area has, not surprisingly, been described as Hawaii鈥檚 鈥減oor stepchild,鈥� and, at face value, Na Wai Ola could easily be one of the most dysfunctional schools in the state. After all, for much of its 13-year existence, the school was on the verge of being shuttered over .

And things are hardly more stable for the students in their home lives; , according to Caluya.

This makes it all the more remarkable that Na Wai Ola this past year was recognized by the Hawaii Department of Education as one of the highest-achieving schools in the state as part of the new Strive HI performance and improvement system, which ranks Hawaii鈥檚 289 public schools on a range of customized success and growth measures. That standing won the school one of just three top-level $95,000 state prizes. It was also the only charter school in Hawaii out of 32 (another has since opened) to merit a spot on the highest rung of the five-tier index.

The school still faces harsh choices. Just this year, Caluya decided to eliminate the seventh and eighth grades to invest more money at the elementary level.

But Na Wai Ola is, as the school’s Dean of Students Mark Kealamakia noted, “the little choo choo that could.”

This is the story of the turnaround.

Civil Beat’s Learning Hilo Charter Schools Series

Civil Beat is profiling Na Wai Ola and several other charter schools in and around the Hilo area as part of a five-part education series. Learning Hilo explores four of Hawaii’s charter school “innovation laboratories” and how leaders offer less-than-traditional models, techniques and even challenging ideas to the rest of the public school system.

Charter schools are public schools that fall under the DOE but are managed by their own independent governing boards and are grounded in innovative, outcomes-based learning models. Although they operate under a performance contract with Hawaii’s charter school commission and are subject to different funding schemes, charter schools are bound by many DOE-wide provisions, including collective bargaining and federal and state testing requirements. Most of the state’s charter schools 鈥� 23 of the 33 鈥� are eligible for the federal Title I entitlement program, meaning they serve large populations of students from low-income families.

While charter schools often share similar goals and challenges, each has a unique story and its own approach to education reform; the schools being profiled in Learning Hilo are meant to provide a few snapshots of the diverse charter landscape. Civil Beat decided to focus on the Hilo area because it offers a lens into Hawaii’s especially broad range of charter experiences, particularly because the town is at the nucleus of the . The Big Island is home to 14 of the state’s charter schools, nine of which are on the eastern side of the island. Some say that’s in large part because of how dispersed the island’s relatively small population is 鈥� regular public schools are limited in number and far apart from each other 鈥� and how difficult it can be to get around.

Hawaii County also has the 鈥� 34.3 percent compared with a statewide average of 24.4 percent 鈥� which has perhaps heightened demand for Hawaiian-immersion charter schools. (That is part of why, in the coming days, we will feature a pair of charter schools that teach only in the Hawaiian language to examine their struggle to convince the school system and residents of their merit despite the schools’ intense resistance to federal and state testing mandates.)

Beyond the cultural and philosophical challenges, success, for many of these schools, involves creating opportunities for some of Hawaii鈥檚 most disadvantaged children and overcoming frequent funding shortfalls, poor past management and scathing audits that tend to undermine public confidence in the charter system and its ability to operate independently.

On a very different level, the Big Island’s charter schools are in many ways responding to the community’s need for easily accessible schools that are tailored to specific cultural and philosophical needs.

No Money for Facilities

To understand the transformation of Na Wai Ola requires spending time with Caluya, a U.S. Air Force veteran and former foster kid who readily declares: “We don鈥檛 worship at the altar of mediocrity.”

It also warrants a look at how messed up Na Wai Ola 鈥� which means Waters of Life 鈥� was when he arrived in July 2009. In fact, the school was all but done for 鈥� “a disaster,” as teacher Rick Turner explained.

Grave financial mismanagement and administrative disorganization 鈥� problems the state auditor 鈥� had drained the school鈥檚 coffers. The state responded by revoking the school鈥檚 charter and was poised to close it down altogether in 2009, but that summer that the state lacked the administrative framework to justify its closure.

The judge allowed Caluya, who had recently moved to Hawaii after working as a teacher and principal in Texas, to keep Na Wai Ola operating, pending reviews every six months.

Caluya used the initial window of time to tap into a team of school leaders and community volunteers and embark the school on a broad transformation effort. “I had to show the review panel I was here to stay. I said, ‘give me a chance to fix this.'”

The panel did give Caluya the go-ahead, but he didn’t get much in the way of financial support. In fact, Caluya kept Na Wai Ola running during the 2009-10 school year with his own funds, and nursed it back to health 鈥� hiring a highly qualified accountant to overhaul its financial plan. He also renovated the public gym next-door so that it could be used to host classes. It is all part of how he helped hold things together until the state resumed its support for the school the following year.

Caluya believes that every student has the potential for greatness as long as they’re given the tools they need to succeed. After he retired from his 22-year stint in the military, he wanted to give back to the taxpayers who had supported his long career. Now, Caluya is set on closing the achievement gap between rich and poor students by continuing efforts to spruce up the campus, boost student learning and support the community through outreach programs.

He stresses that his work is nowhere near finished: “I do not think on what I have done, but what still needs to be done.”

Adults on campus were quick to underscore how Caluya achieved what everyone thought was impossible.

“It does take a village,” said Maurice Messina, who chairs Na Wai Ola’s governing board, as he stands at the school’s entrance monitoring comings and goings. “But it couldn’t have been done without that man.”

Caluya showed the state that even the most disadvantaged students can make 鈥� and surpass 鈥� the grade with the help of required Saturday school for struggling students, free after-school tutoring and a range of community outreach services.

And Na Wai Ola has managed to provide such education with an overall operating budget of just about $1 million each year. While an analysis of suggests that such an amount is consistent with the base operating budgets of schools its size, the charter school’s operating budget, unlike those for regular public schools, has to be stretched to cover every expense 鈥� not just overhead costs and other basics.

Charters , which for regular public schools this year totaled . This means charter schools don鈥檛 get separate state money for facilities, which many charter advocates argue is proof that such schools are being shortchanged by the state, especially because of how expensive capital improvements can cost. (For example, Honaunau Elementary, a regular public school on the Big Island that is similar in size to Na Wai Ola, is due in the coming years, monies that aren’t supposed to come out of the school’s operating budget.)

With an estimated average of about 80 percent of their state funding , charter schools must, by nature, be resourceful. As Tom Hutton, the recently appointed executive director of the state鈥檚 , noted in a conversation with Civil Beat earlier this year, 鈥渋n charters, there are no easy questions.鈥�

That鈥檚 why, to this day, Na Wai Ola leases its classroom spaces 鈥� ramshackle bungalows marked by peeling bright-blue paint and porches adorned with spider webs and rust 鈥� from St. Theresa Church. The religious institution still hosts mass, not to mention Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous meetings on-site when school鈥檚 not in session.

The school’s eating area is housed under a tarp held up by metal poles, while most of the rock walkways connecting buildings are often coated in mud, courtesy of the daily Hilo rain.

The campus has improved since Caluya took over. It continues to expand, too. The school is about to get its first playground, thanks to a grant from Hawaii county, and an administration building whose construction is being funded by an outside donor. And it recently gained access to public park facilities, including public restrooms, and a gym that the county condemned in 2009 because of its hazardous lead paint. (Caluya and a group of volunteers .)

But using county facilities means the school doesn鈥檛 have much control over who loiters around the park facilities, which explains Caluya鈥檚 morning routine. He points to a seemingly impenetrable stretch of trees and bushes adjacent to the campus 鈥� a stomping ground, he says, for many of the town鈥檚 transients during the school day.

Community-Building Recipe

In an area like this, the transformation goes well beyond the resources available to Na Wai Ola. The school does what it can to keep the students and even their families afloat. It provides complimentary lunch to all of its children, regardless of their eligibility for free or discounted meals through the federal government鈥檚 subsidy program at a cost of $5,000 per month, according to Caluya. The school also offers occasional hot meals to the families of students. It even subsidizes dental care for needy kids.

Caluya鈥檚 descriptions of Na Wai Ola鈥檚 transformation roll off of his tongue with rhythmic ease, an indication that it鈥檚 a story he鈥檚 recounted many times. He answers most questions with a 鈥測es (or no), ma鈥檃m鈥� and sprinkles his narrative with idioms and references to his own transient childhood. He was a foster-home child 鈥斅爃e counts more than 30 in his past, as well as numerous schools 鈥� an experience that inspires him greatly in his work.

With the students, Caluya is tough but tender, garnering both respect and a strong desire to please from the kids. Caluya pointed to one child and said he lives in a tent in the forest, a quiet, brown-eyed boy in the first grade whose legs are a minefield of bug bites. The principal motioned to a catchment across the street, where families line up after school to fill buckets with running water 鈥� something they don鈥檛 have where they sleep. He scolded a student who was on a time-out and then pulled her into his arms. Later, he told a barefoot boy it鈥檚 not acceptable to leave the classroom without shoes on. After the boy put on his footwear, Caluya stuck up his thumb, said 鈥渢hanks, buddy鈥� and gave him a hug.

鈥淚 put the onus on the kids,鈥� he later explains as he walks purposefully through the maze of narrow hallways toward his office. It is a musty closet-sized room where he and Kealamakia, the school鈥檚 dean, do their business amid sports jerseys, photos and stacks of papers.

On this particular day, Caluya wears a dress shirt and, as he proudly points out, a Pooh-Bear tie.

Connecting to the World

Teacher Sandy Carvalho鈥檚 fifth-grade students were learning about the United Nations the day Civil Beat visited Na Wai Ola.

Carvalho sat at her desk, surrounded by towers of workbooks and art supplies, as the children drew and colored flags of countries that joined the UN after World War II. Each had a mini-iPad, all purchased with the $95,000 grant Na Wai Ola received this year from the DOE, to help them with their research.

The iPads stand out in the cramped classroom. Until this year, when the school got partitions to divide up the grades, most of the classroom spaces (and teachers) accommodated two grade levels at once. (The school was able to break up the grade levels this year in part because it cut out the seventh and eighth grades.)

The students scampered up to Carvalho, iPads in hand, their voices high-pitched as they eagerly asked her for permission to move on to the next assignment, for approval on their artwork or help on their flags.

鈥淚 just love elementary students,鈥� said Carvalho, a former high-school teacher, emphatically, adding that she was skeptical of charter schools before accepting the job at Na Wai Ola. She was patient but stern, asking each student 鈥� by name 鈥� how his or her flag could be 鈥渆ven better.鈥� (Among their answers: color within the lines, space the letters more evenly, erase the pencil marks.)

鈥淵ou are such a great artiste,鈥� she said smiling in a French accent to one student. 鈥淭hat’s why I know you can do it.鈥�

The students milled around the classroom as they worked on their projects, talking excitedly about the countries they had chosen. She regularly reminded them to always be productive, scolding one student who was playing Candy Crush on her iPad.

Carvalho explained that she loves her students as if they were her own children. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e at a disadvantage, a disadvantage,鈥� she said tenderly. 鈥淎nd I think part of the reason I chose to work here is because of that fact.鈥�

鈥淗owever, I don鈥檛 let that be a handicap tool,鈥� she continued. 鈥淚 have to be able to balance that. I shower them with a lot of love and attention, and they know this … They know I have their backs.鈥�

Most charter schools got their charters from the state by committing to offer specific innovative learning alternatives, many of them geared toward specific outcomes.

Na Wai Ola has reinvented itself as an agri-science school and it incorporates the campus garden and accompanying aquaculture system into almost every class. Turner, the teacher who oversees the , estimated that students, each of whom owns a pair of rubber boots, spend at least 15 hours in the garden each week.

Turner wore a bigger version of the same rubber boots and a straw hat as he proudly showcased the garden, picking produce 鈥� including a Japanese cucumber, a sprig of aromatic basil and some parsley 鈥� along the way.

After school, the kids marched in single file to the gym for the afternoon protocol, each class guided by a teacher. They packed into the bleachers and, slowly, the chatter died down.

The military man-turned-principal took the hand of a little girl and stood facing all 130 students 鈥� chin up, chest out, shoulders back 鈥� as the deep, resonant sound of two conch shells filled the room.

“Mr. C” had their full attention.

Read other stories in this series:

• Learning Hilo 鈥� School’s In
• Learning Hilo 鈥� Defending Hawaii
• Learning Hilo 鈥� The Bucket List
• Learning Hilo 鈥� The New Voyage

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