What Happens When Teacher Favoritism Gives Co-Curricular Leadership Roles To Slackers: A Parent’s Story
The laundry was still piling out of the dryer when my 15-year-old non-binary kid Riley slammed their backpack onto our kitchen counter last March, chipped black nail polish digging into the edge of the wood when they leaned over. “I didn’t get it,” they said, voice flat. I didn’t even have to ask what “it” was. For three months, they’d stayed after school every Tuesday and Thursday to plan the third year spring drama production, drafted the rehearsal calendar, organized the prop drive that brought in 12 bags of vintage clothes and furniture, and covered three extra tech rehearsals when the previous student lead dropped out mid-semester. Drama’s the only thing that gets them out of bed on bad days, ever since their best friend attempted suicide back in October.
The role went to Mia, the drama teacher’s long-time favorite. Mia’s mom runs the PTA, she’s the lead in every school musical, and she hadn’t shown up to a single planning meeting since the start of the new year. She’d been busy with cheerleading competitions, and half the tasks she’d signed up for last fall got pushed off onto Riley and a couple of freshmen. When Riley asked Ms. Henderson why Mia got the role over people who’d put in the work, Ms. Henderson just said Mia “had experience leading groups” and was “great at connecting with people.”
I went up to check on Riley an hour after they got home, and they were curled up in bed staring at the ceiling, their drama notebook open to a page of messy, highlighted rehearsal notes. “What’s the point of trying if it doesn’t matter how hard you work?” they said. Then they said it, quiet enough I almost missed it: “Sometimes it feels like there’s no point in sticking around for stuff that’s just fake anyway.” My stomach dropped. That’s the line we’d been watching for, ever since October.
I sat down on the edge of their bed, didn’t try to fix it right away. I didn’t say “it’s just a high school play” or “you’re better than that” or “everything happens for a reason” — all things I’ve heard other parents say, all things that would have made Riley leave the room and shut down. I just said, “That is so unfair. That sucks more than anything, and your hard work wasn’t invisible to me. I’d be just as angry as you are.” They cried for 20 minutes after that, which was far better than them shutting down completely.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this situation since, because co-curriculars are supposed to be the great equalizer for kids, right? They build leadership skills, pad college applications, help kids find their people. But no one talks about how often leadership roles get handed out based on who the teacher likes, not who’s actually done the work. It’s not always malicious, either. After we connected with the school counselor a couple of days later, Ms. Henderson pulled Riley aside and admitted she’d just defaulted to Mia because Mia’s always loud and visible, and she never stopped to notice all the work Riley was doing behind the scenes. She was just being lazy, not cruel, but that doesn’t make it hurt less — especially when your kid’s already on shaky mental ground.
There are a few concrete things we did that helped, that I haven’t seen a lot of other people talk about. First, I didn’t push Riley to quit drama, which was my first angry instinct. I just asked them what they wanted. They said they still loved building props and working with the other underclassmen who actually show up, so they stayed. No need to make them give up the thing they love just because the system messed up. Second, I didn’t storm the principal’s office demanding a do-over. I knew that would just put a target on Riley’s back with the staff. Instead, I emailed the school counselor and head of year, copied Ms. Henderson, and asked for three specific, small things: a weekly 10-minute check-in with Riley for a month to make sure their mood stayed steady, a clear, public list of criteria for all future co-curricular leadership roles posted to the club’s group page, and a 15-minute meeting to talk through how assignments would work going forward. Third, I added a quick ritual to our weekly Sunday pizza night: we each go around the table and say one thing that sucked this week and one thing that didn’t. It’s small, but it means Riley knows they can bring up this kind of garbage without me jumping to fix it immediately.
What most people don’t tell you is that this kind of small, unfair rejection hits way harder for kids who already struggle with hopelessness. After their friend’s suicide attempt, Riley’s been hyper-aware of how arbitrary life can feel. When the person who slacks gets the reward just because the teacher likes them more, it confirms that worst fear: nothing you do matters. It doesn’t matter if you’re a hard worker, if you care, if you show up every day. It just matters who you know.
A couple of months later, the play happened. Mia forgot half her duties as student director, and Riley ended up covering most of them anyway, but this time they didn’t do it for a title. They did it because they wanted the play to be good for the freshmen who’d never been in a production before. Ms. Henderson did post the new criteria for next year’s roles, which is a small win. Riley still says they don’t trust any teacher to give them a fair shot now, and that’s okay. It’s not the neat, inspiring ending you see in parenting magazines. We still have bad days where they bring it up, and I still just sit and listen. We go for 15 minute walks around the block when they get frustrated, and I buy them their favorite vanilla iced coffee on the way home. It’s not fixing the broken system, and it’s not erasing the hurt. But it’s enough, for now.
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