In 2010, Panera launched an experiment that would define our society.
Panera Cares, an initiative to help those who struggled to pay for meals, opened in several cities across the US. The aim, in essence, was for people to pay what they could for meals, and that the more affluent would cover the cost of those who were food insecure.
The program lasted less than a decade, but when it failed, it wasn’t for the reasons many suspected.
It wasn’t that people weren’t willing to pay more to subsidize those who couldn’t afford food.
Instead, research found, customers who could pay more simply abandoned the restaurants because they didn’t want to sit next to those who had lesser means.
It wasn’t a problem of generosity.
It was a problem of dignity.
I’m happy to give you money.
Just don’t make me share a space with you.
This past year, something similar happened in a Denver.
Progressives in the city voted to support a homeless encampment to help those affected by the Covid pandemic. The camp would provide food, health care and housing during the winter months.
Seeing the heart of the city and a need that he could meet, a local pastor decided to offer up his church parking lot in the center of the community.
What followed wasn’t the embrace of the city he expected.
Instead, lawsuits started flowing in.
Because, when the city voted for the homeless camp, it was supposed to be in a park outside of the city. Over there. Out of sight. Away from the affluent families who supported social justice with their words but not their actions.
Recently, I was sitting down with a teacher during his pre-observation conference. He used a phrase when describing his teaching philosophy that I’ve thought about nearly every day since: that his goal is to “restore the dignity” of his students.
Restore the dignity.
Implying that all of our students are entitled to dignity, but that our educational system has since stripped them of that dignity.
I meet with a lot of students who tell me that they feel like schools have given up on them. That they’re told they’ll never succeed. That the actions of past teachers communicate that those teachers don’t want them around.
This is particularly common in inner-city and less affluent districts. Teachers leave at a higher rate of attrition and are less inclined to take jobs in those settings.
Instead, it’s a desire to restore dignity to a group of students who need little else.
Some will say it’s easier to work in a suburban school.
I don’t buy it. It’s more comfortable, maybe, for most teachers.
But not easier.
Unless your goal is simply to put up good numbers.
But when your purpose as a teacher goes beyond the numbers — when your purpose is about bringing life to students who desperately need someone to believe in them — it’s easy to share some light.
By simply sharing a space and giving voice to our students, we tell them that they matter.
By intending to understand that their actions are an attempt to communicate something other than the action itself — life is difficult at home, money is tight, stress is high, pressure is mounting, school is hard, I’m lost and lonely — we give integrity back to our students.
Instead, we try to define our students by test scores, graduation requirements and credits at best. Referrals and discipline at worst.
I’m fortunate to work in a building and district that sees students for who they are, not just behavior problems and graduation needs. And with the restoration of dignity, everything else is taking care of itself.
Behavior reports are down 70 percent from the beginning of the year.
Students are completing classes at a record pace.
Attendance is higher than it’s ever been.
When dignity is the primary goal of every educator, the rest of the pieces fall into place.
Want to make a difference? Start by restoring dignity.