Taking the Alternate Route

By Sonja Steptoe/Los Angeles

What happens to kids who misbehave so badly they get kicked out of public school? It used to be they disappeared from view and then limped through life without a high school diploma, which means they never really got far. But as more schools have become tough with the tough kids, a system for managing these potential dropouts has begun to emerge, giving kids like Eduardo a chance.

Sitting on a folding chair in his cap and gown, surrounded by proud friends and teachers, Eduardo, 18, looks like any other happy December graduate as he opens a gift-wrapped box containing a new watch. But only nine months ago, Eduardo, who doesn't want his last name published, was removed from a Los Angeles high school for what he calls "a lot of bad behavior," including truancy, failing grades and drug use. He was transferred to Northeast Juvenile Justice Center, an alternative school for troubled kids who have left the regular educational system. "It seemed like it was all over for me because I had messed up so much," says Eduardo. "But here I am graduating."

Facilities like Northeast Juvenile Justice Center have become a solution for school officials who want to get troublemaking students out of mainstream classrooms but are required by state law to educate them. The Department of Education says the number of schools for students who break the rules ballooned from 2,606 in the 1993-94 academic year to 4,818 in 2000-01.

The trend shows no sign of slowing. New York City's new schools chancellor, Joel Klein, unveiled last November a tougher disciplinary policy, the linchpin of which is "twilight schools" for disruptive students in each of the city's five boroughs. Klein also plans to increase the number of alternative facilities for the most serious offenders.

But with more problem students getting routed to alternative schools, education policymakers face a dilemma: should they continue to segregate these kids after they have been rehabilitated, or return them to mainstream classrooms despite the risk that the bad habits and old pressures that originally contributed to their problems will resurface? Many youngsters are eager to escape the ostracism of this breed of alternative ed. "A lot of kids and parents see it as one step away from being in jail," says Sunshine Sepulveda-Klus, who coordinates alternative-education programs in the Los Angeles Unified School District. "We've worked hard to change that impression, but there will always be that stigma." Though many school districts allow the students to apply for readmission into the regular system, most don't seem eager to take them back.

In Philadelphia, school officials and students are squaring off in court over the issue. A group primarily composed of inner-city students, assigned to alternative education under a 2002 state law designed to improve school safety, has filed a class action to overturn it. The sweeping statute requires alternative placements for those who commit a range of offenses--whether in school or not--after they have successfully completed sentences in juvenile-detention facilities. The students say the rule punishes those whose misdeeds weren't violent, as well as those who did nothing wrong at school. The plaintiffs also fear they will be banished permanently. "The statute doesn't provide clear timetables or means by which those students can get back to regular schools," says their attorney, Marsha Levick. One student, who may sign on as a plaintiff, recently emerged from two months in boot camp for car theft and resents not being able to return to the regular classroom. "When you go to that [alternative] school, people know you did something wrong," he says. "I feel like I'm being punished twice."

But educators like Gwen Morris, executive director of transition and alternative education for Philadelphia's school district, say the counseling and academic help students receive in rehabilitative schools lead to smoother transitions back to mainstream schools. "It's an opportunity to give the highest-risk students the support services they need to make their re-entry work," she says. A similar philosophy has worked well in Los Angeles, where the County Office of Education operates 70 of these schools. They combine individual attention with stringent academic standards and an insistence on personal responsibility. Students must sign a contract stipulating that they will behave.

Mujeres y Hombres Nobles, the oldest alternative high school for troubled kids in Los Angeles County, has been a model around the country. It serves 75 students, mostly Latinos from nearby East L.A. Their infractions range from truancy to firearm possession, drug selling and sexual assault. There are no window bars, security guards, metal detectors or pat-downs at the front door--just a friendly receptionist and a big, brightly colored bulletin board welcoming all visitors. "If we installed security devices, we'd be telling our kids that we don't trust them," says Cathleen Corella, the principal, who proudly reports that there have been just five fights at the school in 10 years.

Mujeres' classes cover all major subjects. The faculty-student ratio is comparatively low, and teachers design rigorous instruction to help students bolster weak academic skills and pass standardized proficiency exams. "Nothing is watered down here," says Corella. Only students who get Cs or better, complete their after-school counseling programs and maintain good behavior and attendance records are allowed to apply for readmission to their school districts.

Students with juvenile-criminal records are assigned to one of two probation officers who work at the school. School-district caseworkers also monitor their progress. Everyone maintains an open-door policy; teachers and students address one another by first name. The debate raging elsewhere over the proper fate of alternative-ed students was settled here long ago. "It's on a case-by-case basis, the way it should be," says Corella. Countywide, about 10% of the students elect to stay in the alternative setting until graduation. Corella reports that 40% of Mujeres grads attend junior college, and a few have even gone on to four-year universities.

One student, who was cleared to return to his old school, has opted to stay at Mujeres because he doesn't want to risk relapsing: "I'm happy here. My parents feel great about me, and I have more confidence in myself." For those who want to go back, Corella says their wishes are considered, but the final decision rests with the school's administrators, the student's mental-health counselor, school-district officials and the probation officer. A 13-year-old boy who was expelled under zero-tolerance rules last June--he accidentally cut his best friend while playing with a pen knife at school--will return to his school district next fall because, Corella says, "he's a strong A student with no behavior problems, and his offense was minor." When a student has serious anger problems, however, "it's a big red flag," she says. "That kid's probably better off with us because zero tolerance will eat him alive."

The system also serves as a safety net if students stumble when they return to regular school, as Eduardo did. "It wasn't a good place for me," says the aspiring hip-hop artist of his old school. "When I was there, I only wanted to get high. Now, because of alternative school, I want to get somewhere."