The School That Raised Me — And the Fight to Save It 

There are moments in life when everything shifts — when showing up for your child becomes something more. A calling. A fire you can’t put out. This is a recount of events that took place. 

For me, that moment happened at the Paul A. Dever Elementary School in Dorchester.

What started as simply being present for my son quickly became a fight to protect home — not just for my family, but for every student, every parent, every educator who had ever been silenced, ignored, or made to feel invisible.

The Dever wasn’t just a school.

It was a heartbeat.
A sanctuary.
A place where cultures met and intertwined, where languages echoed through the halls, and where love revealed itself in quiet but powerful ways — a teacher’s hug, a call home after a hard day, a classroom that embraced difference rather than pushed it away.

But like many schools serving historically marginalized communities, the Dever was also a battleground.
Leadership churn.
Chronic underfunding.
Top-down decisions made by people who had never walked our halls, never met our students, never felt the pulse of what made Dever... Dever.

And still — we fought.
And we were making real gains.

Until one night changed everything.

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The Night Everything Changed

January 6, 2025. 9:15 p.m.
The news leaked: The Dever, along with several sister schools, was facing closure or merger.

For the Dever, it meant full closure.
No options.
No consideration.
No respect.

I stood in my son’s doorway, watching him sleep as silent tears ran down my face.
How do you explain to a child that their safe place — the one you promised to protect — is being ripped away?

Just weeks before, we had been in hopeful talks. Then — right before the holiday break — it all fell apart.

No conversation.
No real warning.
Just a decision made in rooms we weren’t invited into.

I couldn’t stay quiet.
I wouldn’t.

---

We Fought Like Hell

I’ll be honest — as a solo activist, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I just knew I had to fight like hell and make every shot count. I was lucky to have others guiding me as I led the way.

Here’s what we did in just 3.5 months:

• We organized rallies. (Our Dever students were amazing at every single one.)
  
  

• We spoke to the media. (They started paying attention — and they couldn’t look away.)
  
  

• We showed up at every School Committee meeting.
  
  

• We asked the hard questions, even when they made people uncomfortable.
  
  

• I became the voice they couldn’t ignore, because I refused to be silent.
  
  

Every time I returned, I came back stronger. Louder. More relentless.
Because we were done letting people make decisions about us, without us.

We weren’t just fighting for a building.
We were fighting for:

• The families who felt unseen
  
  

• The teachers stretched too thin
  
  

• The multilingual learners whose brilliance couldn’t be measured by a test
  
  

• Every child who didn’t just attend Dever — but belonged there
  
  

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March 20, 2025 — Decision Day

We were exhausted. Soul-tired.
Still, we held on — to hope, to each other, to the belief that what we were doing mattered.

That morning, I was sick from the flu, still recovering from an asthma attack that had taken the wind out of me — literally and emotionally. But I got up anyway. My feet hit the floor. I got dressed. I showed up. I was advised against pushing my limits. But i couldn’t let my team down now. 

We logged into the Zoom call for the School Committee meeting. It felt like we were on trial. I remember the smell of stale coffee, the hum of nerves, the way my leg wouldn’t stop bouncing.

They went on for nearly an hour about the district budget. It felt cruel — like they were dancing around the wrecking ball we all knew was coming. My stomach turned. My chest felt tight, and not just from the flu.

And then they started reading the list.

Mergers: The Clapp. The Winthrop.
Closures: Excel High. Community Academy. Mary Lyon High.
And then—
The Dever.

I couldn’t move.
The sound of our name felt like a blade.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
My heart thudded once — hard — and then vanished beneath the roar in my ears.

5–1.
They voted.
And just like that — it was done.
Only one voice stood with us. The rest stared down at their papers like we were ghosts. Like we’d never even shown up.

I wanted to scream.
I wanted to flip every chair in my house.
I wanted them to feel it — the exact moment when a dream dies.

But my son was asleep in the next room.
And I couldn’t let him hear the sound of my heartbreak.

So I sat there. Silent. Shaking.

And in that silence, something inside me cracked.
The armor I had spent months building — rally by rally, meeting by meeting — started to fall away.
Piece by piece.

And all I could think was:
Did I fail?
How did this happen?
How did I let this slip away?

I was supposed to protect this place.
I was supposed to win.

I had thrown everything I had into this fight — my voice, my time, my body, my soul. And still… They closed us.

And for one awful moment, I believed I had let everyone down.

It felt like betrayal.
It felt like grief.
But more than anything, it felt like I had lost a part of myself — and I didn’t know how to get it back.

---

The Morning After

I didn’t really sleep.
Maybe four hours.
But sleep wasn’t rest — it was just time passing between the moment we lost the Dever and the moment I had to face it.

I woke up feeling hollow. Like someone had scooped out my insides and left me with nothing but skin holding it all together.
But I got up. Because that’s what I do.

I went to the Dever.
Not as an advocate. Not even really as a parent.
I went as someone broken — but still standing.

The camera crews were waiting.
I watched the playback later, and I barely recognized myself. I looked like the fight had been sucked out of me — eyes dull, voice tired, body there but spirit somewhere else.

But I showed up.

I stood in front of that building — the one they said didn’t matter — and I looked into the eyes of our staff, our parents, our kids. And I saw it.

The same pain I was carrying…
was in all of them.

Some tried to hold it in.
Others didn’t bother.
Because how do you smile when the ground beneath you has been pulled away?

I walked through the building like I was walking through a dream that had turned into a nightmare. Every hallway held a memory. Every classroom echoed with the laughter and struggle of our kids. Every step I took felt like a goodbye I wasn’t ready for.

And still — I told our principal:
“We tried. They didn’t listen. But I’m here. I’m not leaving. I will lead until the last bell rings.”

Because even though I felt like I was falling apart, I knew they needed to see someone still standing.

That day, I wasn’t a fighter.
I wasn’t even a leader.
I was just… a human being trying not to fall apart in front of the people who believed in me.

Later, my boyfriend showed up — the one person who had seen the behind-the-scenes of every speech, every sleepless night, every panic attack masked by a smile.
He pulled me into his arms, held my shaking body close, and said:

“You did something amazing. Your work matters. I’m proud of you.”

And that’s when I broke.

Not from weakness.
From release.

Because everything I had been holding in — the grief, the rage, the guilt, the what-ifs — it came pouring out.
And for the first time, I let it go.

I cried for the school that raised me.
For the people I couldn’t save.
For the fight that didn’t end the way we dreamed.

But even through the tears, something inside whispered:

You didn’t fail.
They just weren’t ready for your kind of truth.

---

One Week Later: Truth, Unfiltered

A week had passed.
Not enough time to heal.
Not nearly enough time to forget.

But I had to go back.
Back to the place where it all felt like a trial.
Back to the faces who decided our fate with barely a glance.

I wasn’t going back to plead.
Not this time.

I went back to speak — to say what no one else would say loud enough.
To hold them accountable.
To make them see.

I looked each School Committee member in the eye.
No more polite questions.
No more soft words.

I said:
“BPS and DESE failed the Dever.
You treated its students, families, educators, and staff like we meant nothing.
The Dever asked for one simple thing: merge us, move us — but don’t close us.
You ignored that.
You made a decision months ago.
And now, you’ve made a mistake you can’t take back.”

I didn’t say it for applause.
I said it because the truth had to be spoken.
Because silence would have been a complicity.

I stood there — not as a defeated parent, but as a warrior.
The voice for every child and teacher who ever felt unseen.
The echo for every promise broken.

Because the Dever wasn’t just bricks and mortar.
It was a community.
A legacy.
A fight that refused to die quietly.

And I was not going to let that legacy be erased.

---

The Dever Wasn’t Just a School — It Was My Start

It’s where my son began his journey.
It’s where I began mine.

I wasn’t always an advocate. I was just a parent.
I became one — out of love, out of necessity, out of purpose.

I built bridges between families and leadership.
I co-founded the Dever Stronger Movement — a collective demand for respect, inclusion, and dignity.

We weren’t nostalgic. We were determined.
And we showed this city what it looks like when a school community refuses to be erased.

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A Legacy Rooted in Love — And a Call to Rise

Even now, the pain of the Dever’s closure still cuts deep.
But I refuse to let its story end in silence.

I’m part of the Community Engagement & Celebration Team — working to give our school a final year filled with love, light, and legacy.
We’re planning events, collecting memories, and fighting to have a street named after the school. Because every child, every teacher, every family who ever walked those halls deserves to know:

You mattered. This place mattered. And it always will.

Even when the fight ends, the fire remains.
My time as the Dever’s advocate is coming to a close, and it breaks me in ways I never imagined.
But through every ache, every tear, I know this truth:

We shattered ceilings that were never meant to be touched.
We carved out space where none was given.
We raised voices that had been silenced for generations.

Letting go is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
But I kept my promise.
I came home.
I stood for the school that raised me — 34 years ago, when I was just a child walking those same hallways, not knowing I’d one day return to protect them.

This isn’t just goodbye.
It’s a circle closing.
A story finding its ending.
A heart cracking open under the weight of love.

The district needs to understand something deeper than data or votes:
The Dever was never a failure.
It was a blueprint.
A testament.
Proof that brilliance can grow in concrete.

So yes — this is my final bow.
The Dever as the legacy.
Me as the legend.

But this was never about titles.
It was about us.
Our babies.
Our teachers.
Our community.
Our future.

this is my curtain call, then let it be loud. Let it echo.
Let it clear the way for those who come next —
to rise, to speak, to lead.

Because when the Dever closes its doors on June 30, 2026, its soul will live on.
Its story will never die.
And the fire?
It still burns.

And I will carry it.
Always.