Why Many Teachers and Parents Say the U.S. Doesn’t Need a Federal Department of Education — And What It Means for Your Kid’s School
The coffee in the West Clermont Local Schools board room was already burnt by 7:15 p.m. last Tuesday, and half the room was on their second cup when Ms. Henderson, our 4th grade reading specialist, leaned into the mic and slid a stack of glossy worksheets across the table to board members. The worksheets came with the new federally approved reading curriculum our district adopted over the summer, and every page had a little checkbox for teachers to mark when they’d completed the required scripted lesson.
“Last week I had to cut 20 minutes of small-group phonics practice to stay on the required whole-group pacing guide,” she said, tapping the top sheet. “If I don’t hit every minute on the checklist during the federal walkthrough next month, we lose $1.2 million a year in Title I funding. That’s 12 teacher aides. That’s our free after-school supper program for kids whose parents work second shift.”
A murmur went through the folding chairs. I leaned forward, because my 9-year-old son Javi is in Ms. Henderson’s class, and I’d already seen the shift at home. Last year, when the district used a locally picked curriculum built around farm stories and hands-on word work, Javi—who’s always struggled with reading—went up two grade levels in three months. This year, he drags his feet on homework every night; the textbook stories are all about subway rides and rooftop playgrounds, things he’s only seen on TV. Twenty-two percent of kids in our rural district don’t have home broadband, and the curriculum requires 20 minutes of online independent reading nightly. Those kids get marked down on participation automatically, even if they read a physical book for an hour after finishing chores.
Someone near the back called out, “Why is Washington telling us how to teach our kids, anyway?” That question hung over the rest of the meeting, and it’s one I’ve heard from teachers and parents across the political spectrum in the year I’ve attended these meetings: why do we even have a U.S. Department of Education, and would local schools be better off without it?
After public comment wrapped, I stayed to talk to Ms. Henderson and Mr. Torres, a retired district administrator who started teaching here in 1976, three years before the department became a full cabinet-level position. He pulled a chair out and wiped coffee off his flannel shirt. “It wasn’t always like this,” he said. “Before 1979, federal education staff were a tiny division inside the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. Their whole job was sending funding to districts and making sure no one got excluded on the basis of race. No one was writing lesson scripts from D.C.”
Over 40 years, he explained, the department has tied almost every pot of federal school money to increasingly specific rules: curriculum requirements, standardized testing quotas, mandatory professional development teachers complete on their own time, reporting forms that eat into planning periods. Ms. Henderson pulled out her phone and showed me her calendar: five hours every week blocked off just for federal compliance paperwork. That’s five hours she doesn’t spend grading work, prepping small group activities, or calling parents whose kids have been out sick.
I’d heard the counterarguments before, and they came up 20 minutes later when Lila, a mom whose 7-year-old has nonverbal autism, stepped to the mic. “If we get rid of the federal department, who’s going to make sure this district gives my son his speech therapy and one-on-one aide?” she said, her voice tight. “I remember what it was like for disabled kids before IDEA. Local districts used to just turn them away.”
That’s the line that gives many parents pause, and it’s not an unreasonable fear. But civil rights protections for students don’t depend on a cabinet-level education department. Desegregation orders and disability discrimination rules are ultimately enforced by the Department of Justice, which already handles civil rights claims for housing, work, and public spaces. Most states already have stronger protections for disabled students than the federal baseline: here in Ohio, state rules cap special ed teacher caseloads at 12 kids, compared to the federal IDEA cap of 18. The federal department doesn’t add extra teeth to those rules; it just adds extra paperwork between a parent filing a complaint and someone actually looking into it.
The core case for shifting control away from Washington is far simpler: no group of policy writers 400 miles away can know what a room of 9-year-olds in southwest Ohio needs, any more than they can write a one-size-fits-all rule for village schools in rural Alaska, bilingual classrooms in South Texas, or large urban high schools in Chicago. A mandate that makes sense for a wealthy suburban district with universal broadband and full-time aides becomes a pointless burden for us, and we can’t say no without losing money we can’t afford to replace. Local property taxes already stretch most working families here thin; we couldn’t make up that $1.2 million in Title I money even if we voted to raise taxes tomorrow. When decisions are made locally, accountability is straightforward, too: if you don’t like a school board vote, you can show up to complain, vote the member out, or run for the seat yourself. Almost no parent can name a single staffer at the U.S. Department of Education, let alone hold them accountable for a bad rule.
None of this means parents have to wait for Congress to abolish the department to make things better for their kids. Over the last year, I’ve picked up small, doable steps from Ms. Henderson and other regular attendees that move the needle right here, no national political fight required. First, show up to monthly school board work sessions, not just the viral, packed meetings about controversial issues. 90% of votes about curriculum and federal funding compliance happen in these low-key meetings, and most months fewer than 10 parents are in the room. You don’t have to give a speech; just being there lets the board know people are paying attention. Second, ask your building principal for a one-page breakdown of how much federal money your school gets, and what rules come attached to it. That’s public information, and most admins are happy to walk parents through it if you ask politely. You don’t need to parse a 200-page grant; just ask one question: what requirements would you drop tomorrow if you didn’t have to follow them to keep the money? Third, if a rule doesn’t work for your family—like mandatory online homework with no internet access—tell your teacher, and ask other parents in the same boat to mention it too. Last year, our district got a waiver from a federal standardized testing requirement that ate 12 days of instructional time a year, after 32 parents signed a short letter asking for flexibility.
By the time I left the meeting, it was almost 10 p.m. Javi was curled up on the couch at home, reading the tattered goat story book Ms. Henderson gave him last year, when I walked in the door. He looked up and read me a whole page without stopping, only stumbling over the word “pasture.”
The board voted that night to join 11 other rural Ohio districts to ask the state for a waiver from the new reading curriculum mandate, and to push the federal education department for more flexible Title I rules for districts without universal broadband. They might get the waiver. They might not. Ms. Henderson still has to teach the scripted lessons four days a week, and she still spends five hours filling out federal forms. But she’s carved out 15 minutes every Friday for free choice reading, where kids can pick any book they want, no checkboxes required. It’s not a grand fix, and it doesn’t settle the national debate. It’s just what works for our kids, right now, here.
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