Unfinished business.

I earned my PhD in Learning Sciences from Northwestern University in 2003, including a cross-internship in the department of Human Development and Social Policy focused on improving the life chances of children living in poverty. I have worked for three different applied research institutes in Chicago, focusing on the improvement of schools and services for children and families. I have Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in history, which enable me to think critically and creatively about social science perspectives. See Lisa Jean Walker, PhD for more on my professional accomplishments and background.

I’ve been fortunate in the work I’ve been able to do and the institutions and education leaders I’ve been able to work with, including, Steven Tozer and Anthony Bryk. I have unfinished business to attend to from this work and am launching this website with this in mind.

Perhaps the pandemic experience will help us understand why and how instability upends middle class expectations of school stability and educational continuity. Maybe then we can approach high-churn schools with empathy and focus on developing consistent and effective responses to their challenges.

I was born and spent the first four years of my life in New Mexico, in the community of Crownpoint, NM on the Navajo Reservation where my father served as a doctor in the U.S. Public Health Service. I went to the public schools in Gallup, New Mexico. I grew up in an arid, dusty place where Native Americans have been exploited, their lands polluted, and centuries of injustices constrain their opportunities. In my adult journey and field of work, I’ve often felt disconnected from these early experiences, but also motivated by them.

My compass comes from the example of my father who as a doctor served Native Americans with great empathy and instilled in me a healthy sense of skepticism. It comes from the strength of having survived personal adversity and from empathic connections who had faith that I would/could find my way. It comes from having taken leaps in my life that led improbably from my public schooling and upbringing in Gallup, New Mexico to a life here in Chicago where I’ve had opportunities to have an impact on systems striving to be more equitable. It comes from first-hand experiences with white colleagues who are committed to doing the work of equity in all they do.

Perhaps, most importantly, my compass comes from Black and Latino colleagues who are willing to speak to truths about leading urban schools that too often are marginalized in mainstream conversations about educational policy and practice. They know what is at stake, having experienced it firsthand (personally, professionally or both). They speak to it with an immediacy to which we should all listen much more closely. The high-churn work creates room to have these conversations. This, I believe, is why Black and Latino colleagues have “leaned into” giving voice to the leadership challenges of high-churn schools, as demonstrated here and here.

While working as a researcher in education reform, my sense of alienation from my roots has deepened in recent years. I feel strongly that we are not doing enough in research-practice partnerships in education to advance equity. I cannot be the only one who has thoughts such as:

What does it mean for us to be impartial and objective in a society where racism runs deep, as has become so obvious in recent years? We work on problems as if they reside “in” children, families and communities—as if the people need fixing, not the systems, institutions and policies through which we should ensure opportunities for them. Although I hear calls for educational equity from every corner, I don’t hear us taking stances that challenge accepted ways of thinking and knowing. I don’t witness us being advocates in the face of injustice. We are not to be critical of the system (note: our partnerships with the system pay the bills). We are to stick to the data and not acknowledge that it does not provide guidance on its own. Data needs to be contextualized and interpreted to be understood, and the context is complex and political. We are not to speak to social attitudes and ideas—often baked (along with our research assistance) into policy, very possibly grounded in racism and difficult to capture in graphs and charts. All these “rules” or norms encourage us to seek safety in ways of thinking and working that are narrow, technical and specialized, not to mention devoid of vision and imagination for others and ourselves.

I also cannot be the only one who feels a need to reconcile my personal journey with my professional experiences and what to prioritize in the face of my doubts. Although well into my career, I still have my idealism — and am glad to know it is not inevitable that it will fade with experience but rather becomes informed by experience.

My unfinished business is in part about all this—understanding how and why my past propels me, what I want it to mean in my future and how I can have an impact going forward. It comes from a need to feel whole again, to get back in touch with why I started on this path in adulthood. I am my father’s daughter—he once was an up-in-coming doctor on the East coast but went to Alaska to serve the Aleuts and then to New Mexico to serve the Navajo. I eschewed a traditional academic career path (did not consider it, actually) in favor of contributing to research-practice spaces intended to overcome the limitations of researchers, policymakers and practitioners working separately.

I’ve created a home in Chicago. My husband and I have a native prairie garden in our backyard and the city of Chicago, and its neighborhoods, sprawl all around. City parks/open spaces are plentiful, and each is special in its own way. Food markets with authentic ingredients for adventurous cooking —Korean/Asian, Mexican, Middle Eastern, Indian—are close by. I live in a neighborhood that reflects Chicago’s diversity and grubby economic reality. I feel comfortable here.

This Journey space is for personal reflections as I explore my unfinished business. The work and writing I—and others in this field—do can be exceedingly dry and dense. Sadly, we learn to describe ourselves in similarly dry and dense ways. It isn’t sustaining. Plants are life. And our work is for life, to nurture what’s possible. And a lot more is possible.