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Transcript
- I want you to picture a child sitting in a classroom that smells like old paper and floor wax, holding a paintbrush with a frayed handle, waiting for permission to make something beautiful. What if I told you that in that single, suspended moment, her entire future is being written not by test scores, but by the courage to create? Let's get real about what it costs to care. Not just in dollars, though we will talk about those numbers later, but in spirit. I spent my morning walking through the hallways of Jefferson Elementary, a school in the south side that the city has labeled 'under-resourced' three times in as many years. It’s a label that feels cold, doesn’t it? Like a diagnosis. But when you walk those halls, you don't feel cold. You feel a vibrant, humming tension. You see kids who are hungry, yes. You see kids who are tired, absolutely. But you also see eyes that are lighting up because Mr. Henderson finally got a box of charcoal from a donation bin. And that is where we find ourselves today. We need to talk about funding arts education in under-resourced public schools. Not as a luxury add-on. Not as the 'nice-to-have' extracurricular that gets cut first when the budget gets tight. I want to talk about it as a lifeline. Because when I watched that twelve-year-old girl mix blue and yellow until it turned into this impossible, glowing green, I didn't just see art. I saw resilience. I saw a language she was using to say, 'I am here. I exist. And I have something to say.' When we strip the arts from these classrooms, we aren't saving money. We are silencing voices that are already struggling to be heard. There is a pervasive myth, one that I hear whispered in school board meetings and shouted on news channels, that the arts are frivolous. That in a world of STEM—science, technology, engineering, math—we simply cannot afford to spend time on drama, on painting, on music. They call it 'soft skills.' As if the ability to empathize with a character in a play or to interpret the emotion in a piece of music is soft. As if it isn't the very thing that makes us human. Think about it. A student learning algebra needs logic. That is vital. But a student learning to act in a community theater production needs vulnerability. She needs to stand in front of people, shake, and speak her truth anyway. She needs to learn that failure is not fatal; it’s just part of the rehearsal. This is the quiet work of showing up. It’s learning how to fail gracefully, how to listen deeply to your scene partner, how to collaborate without dominating. These are not just skills for the stage. They are survival skills for life. In a job market that is increasingly automated, the human capacity for creative problem-solving and emotional intelligence is becoming our most valuable currency. Yet, we are defunding the very places that teach it. Where does this land in your spirit? Because for me, it lands heavy. I remember talking to a principal, Maria, last week. She showed me the spreadsheet. It’s a brutal document. Line after line of cuts. Transportation costs went up. Heating oil prices spiked. And then, at the bottom, the arts budget. Zeroed out. Again. Maria didn’t cry. She just stared at the screen, her finger hovering over the mouse, looking like she wanted to scream but knew better. She told me, 'Felicia, they think creativity is optional. They think joy is a distraction.' This is where the fierce part of me wakes up. It is not a distraction. It is resistance. When a system tells a marginalized child that their expression is less valuable than their data point, that is a form of violence. It says, 'You do not matter as a whole person. You only matter as a statistic.' By cutting arts funding, we are telling thousands of children that their inner worlds are irrelevant. We are telling them that their imagination is a waste of taxpayer money. And that is a lie. A dangerous, soul-crushing lie. We must call out this indifference. We must name it for what it is: a failure of vision, not a failure of funds. But let’s not stay in the dark too long, because there is light. Oh, there is so much light. Because even when the checks don’t come, the teachers find a way. The artists show up. I met a woman named Elena, a local muralist, who started coming to the school every Tuesday. She didn’t have a contract. She didn’t get paid. She brought her own paints, her own brushes, and her own heart. She taught a group of fifth graders how to turn a blank brick wall into a story about their neighborhood. I watched a boy who rarely spoke a word in class stand on a crate and explain his color choices to a crowd of parents. His voice shook, but he stood tall. He owned his space. That moment did not appear on any standardized test. No algorithm can measure that growth. But it changed him. It changed the room. It changed the trajectory of his day, maybe his life. This is the grassroots win. This is the power of community resilience. It happens in the cracks of the system. It happens when good people decide that a child’s right to create is more important than a balanced budget. These small acts of rebellion against the status quo are keeping the soul of these schools alive. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Felicia, this sounds beautiful, but how do we fix it? How do we change the system? Well, we start by understanding the economics of empathy. Let's get real about what it costs to care. It costs us time. It costs us attention. It costs us the willingness to look at the uncomfortable truth that our education system is unequal. But it also costs us very little, financially, if we choose to prioritize it differently. A full-time arts teacher might cost the district fifty thousand dollars a year. That is less than the cost of a single administrative consultant hired to streamline paperwork. It is less than the overtime paid for security guards who end up dealing with behavioral issues that could be alleviated if students had an outlet for their energy and emotions. We have the money. We just have to move it. We have to shift it from bureaucracy to humanity. From compliance to connection. When we invest in the arts, we are investing in mental health. We are investing in social cohesion. We are investing in the next generation of innovators, leaders, and healers. The return on investment is immeasurable, yet we treat it like a debt we can ignore. So, here is my ask of you. Not just to listen, but to act. To see the children in your community not as problems to be solved, but as artists to be supported. Find the local arts council. Donate to the PTA fund that buys supplies. Volunteer to read stories or help with a mural. Show up. The quiet work of showing up is powerful. It signals to these families that they are not alone. It tells the teachers that their passion is seen and valued. And for those of you who have the means, consider making sustained pledges to schools that lack resources. One-time donations are nice, but consistent presence builds trust. Build relationships with the principals. Ask them what they need. Listen. Often, they need basic materials. Crayons. Paper. Canvas. Simple things that become treasures in the hands of a child. When you provide these, you are not just giving supplies. You are giving dignity. You are saying, 'Your dreams are worth supporting.' Where does this land in your spirit? If it stirs something in you, if it makes you want to grab your phone and call someone, then you are ready. The movement is growing. And it needs you. Thank you for spending this time with me. For listening closely. For caring deeply. Remember, every brushstroke counts. Every note played matters. You are part of this story. Until next time, keep creating, keep caring, and keep showing up. I’m Felicia McQuaid, signing off with love.