For Rachael Garnick, a former first grade teacher, the results were a reminder of how tough it’s been for schools to recover from historic declines in learning since the pandemic. 

“The literacy scores are still abysmal and we should be displeased,” said Garnick, who heads the Pennsylvania Literacy Coalition. Made up of over 70 organizations, the group has pushed and state officials to fund and implement reading reform.

But despite the discouraging statewide results, she also sees districts, like in northeastern Pennsylvania and the Mohawk Area district, northwest of Pittsburgh, “trending in the right direction,” and demonstrating urgency over reading scores. Their attitude, she said, was “the opposite of ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ Instead, ‘It’s broke; we’ve got to fix it.’ ” 

on pandemic learning loss from NWEA, an assessment company, captured that combination of frustration and hope over the state of academic recovery. About a third of schools have reached pre-COVID performance levels in reading or math, and just 14% have recovered in both subjects. But even some that were hit the hardest, like high-poverty schools, have made impressive gains.

The report was just the latest collection of results pointing to a long road ahead for most schools. Last year’s National Assessment of Educational Progress scores showed students in the majority of states losing more ground, but included a few standouts with strong progress, like Louisiana in reading and Alabama in math. And state test scores tell a similar story: few have topped pre-COVID performance.

It’s not like experts didn’t predict a slow recovery. 

“If student performance improvement follows historical prepandemic trends, it could take decades for students to fully catch up,” researchers with McKinsey and Company, a consulting firm, .

Even the nation’s education chief isn’t expecting good news soon. 

“I would like to say that NAEP scores, when they come out again in January 2027, are going to show marked improvement,” Education Secretary Linda McMahon said in a recent K-12 Dive . “I don’t think they are.”

But Dan Goldhaber, director of the Center for Analysis of Longitudinal Data in Education Research, said it’s important to put NWEA data, and all measures of kids’ learning, in context.

“One of the reasons that we’re not seeing recovery and that the results aren’t better is because of what was happening in the decade ,” he said. “There was a slow degradation of academic achievement.”

Resisters and rebounders

Schools that were able to resist further declines during the pandemic are those that are more likely to be back on track, according to NWEA’s data, which represents five million students who took the MAP Growth tests through fall 2024. Such schools make up nearly three quarters of the recovered schools.

The Los Angeles-area is one example. 

Before the pandemic, the high-poverty, majority Latino district was already seeing gains on state assessments. When testing resumed in 2022, reading scores held steady. Math scores caught up the following year, and the district has continued to post gains ever since. 

Superintendent Darin Brawley highlighted a mix of academic routines, like a math problem of the day, weekly quizzes and challenging writing assignments, that the district continued despite the disruption of school closures. Teachers were encouraged to dial back their use of smart boards in the classroom and require students to keep math and language arts journals to improve retention. 

“Everything was being done on the smart board and kids weren’t notating anything,” Brawley said. “Certain things have to be worked out on paper.”

NWEA data also pointed to what the researchers call “rebounder” schools, those that saw significant drops in achievement but have been able to climb their way back. High-poverty schools are among those with impressive gains, but even districts seeing higher-than-ever performance still struggle to close wide achievement gaps.

“We’ve never had scores this high in English language arts or math,” said Buffy Roberts, associate superintendent of the Charleston County schools in South Carolina. “It’s been quite phenomenal.”

She was talking about , which, unlike NWEA and NAEP, aren’t comparable because states don’t all measure proficiency the same. But they can still reflect post-COVID trends if states haven’t changed their tests since 2019. 

South Carolina’s math test has remained constant. Results show that statewide, scores have nearly recovered. It’s a trend that NWEA noted as well, explaining that while schools “lost significant ground,” in math, many made “substantial gains afterward.”

In Charleston, 54% of students in grades three through eight met or exceeded expectations in math last year, up from 48% in 2019 and about 10 percentage points higher than the state average. The district also made the Harvard Center for Education Policy Research’s fully recovered districts in the nation last year.

Roberts pointed to a swift return to in-person instruction and high-dosage tutoring as some of the factors contributing to strong growth. But she said at the outset of the pandemic, leaders “knew there were some vulnerable groups” that would need “structures and support to mitigate some of that learning loss.”

The district’s , she explained, provided extra dollars to schools with high-poverty students even when the schools didn’t qualify for federal Title I funding. The schools used the funds for extra staff to reduce class sizes, incentives to increase attendance and mental health services.

But there’s still a lot of work to do. In fourth grade math, there’s a more than 50 percentage point gap between white and Black students, and students from wealthier families outscore students in poverty by 39 percentage points. 

“We agree that progress must be faster,” the district on Facebook after a conservative community group to the disparities. 

In an analysis of scores, Education Data Center researchers, led by Brown University’s Emily Oster, were hopeful about continued math recovery in 2026. Of the 32 states that have kept the same math test since before COVID, seven met or exceeded 2019 proficiency rates: Colorado, Georgia, Iowa, Mississippi, Missouri, Rhode Island and Tennessee.

But even if they didn’t, they all made some gains. Despite Pennsylvania’s decline in reading, for example, its performance in math is less than a percentage point from reaching the 2019 level. 

But the results in reading were less encouraging. Six out of 28 states have met or surpassed pre-pandemic performance. But several others, like Massachusetts, Minnesota and Oregon, remain well off that mark. 

Goldhaber, with CALDER, suggested that states haven’t seen improvement on tests because parents trust those scores less than the grades kids bring home on report cards and assignments. 

A recent reiterated that point. In a survey of over 2,000 parents, nearly three quarters said they believe grades more than tests when making decisions about their children’s learning. They’re also less likely to take action, like seeking out tutoring or other help for their child, when grades are good. 

The problem is that because of grade inflation, which was on the rise even before the pandemic, grades are a less accurate measure of how students are really doing. 

The results of that survey were no surprise to Bibb Hubbard, founder and CEO of Learning Heroes, a nonprofit that focuses on helping parents understand achievement data. She said she’s been “screaming from the rooftops for 10 years” that parents are about their kids’ performance. 

“Good grades do not equal grade level,” she said. “Parents are deeply engaged, but we can’t afford to leave them on the sidelines relying on grades alone. The stakes are too high.”

A 30-year educator in the Compton Unified School District, Inge is a and . 

He also taught Lamar’s 7th-grade English class at Vanguard Learning Center, where he shape Lamar’s academic foundation, introducing him to poetry, nurturing his ability to think critically and developing his passion for language. Now, Lamar’s an award-winning, internationally renowned hip hop artist.

Back in the classroom, Inge used to talk to Lamar about the importance of using his platform to drive change – an idea that would resonate throughout the rapper’s career. Lamar’s journey from Compton to earning and a reflects values that deeply resonate with Inge’s classroom philosophy: hard work, creativity and ability to balance education and talent. 

Now, joining the list of achievements is Lamar’s Super Bowl halftime show performance, which Inge says is “a salute to Black history and an opportunity for millions of people to witness Lamar’s dynamic artistry.” It a bigger audience than the game itself, is officially the most-watched halftime show performance of all time and the first show with a solo rapper to , according to the Apple Music.

Inge spoke with ����Ӱ��’s Trinity Alicia about how Lamar’s academic foundation laid the groundwork for his storytelling success and how it continues to inspire his students in Compton.

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

When it was announced that Kendrick Lamar would perform at the Super Bowl, what was your first emotion?   

I had a great feeling of joy to know someone who has honestly put in the work gets to be at the level he’s at and the stage he was going to be on. The city felt good. My students felt good. It was a circle of joy.   

Everyone was so happy for him because it was a chance for millions of people to see just how dynamic this person really is. It was a perfect example of how putting in hard work gets you great outcomes. It gave me a sense of pride to know he worked hard to be rewarded with this opportunity. He deserved to be there.  

How did you feel when you saw the halftime show?

My initial feeling was that it was a message he was trying to send to both America and to the hip hop culture in itself. There was a lot of thought put into each aspect of the show, and I’m proud of how it all came together because he did exactly what I know he’s supposed to be doing — teaching and sending messages to others. It was an awesome feeling for me as his former English teacher.   

What do you see as the major themes in his performance? Do you think there’s particular significance that those themes were performed at that particular Super Bowl in our current political climate?  

The major theme I saw in the Super Bowl performance was to wake up and understand what’s going on from an African-American perspective and a people of color perspective. The different stages, different colors, different movements, each song and each skit he did — even down to Samuel L. Jackson’s performance — it was so clear that everything was intentional.  

It was a teachable moment for those who wanted to look more deeply at what exactly Lamar was saying. And to me, it all made sense because I know he loves to debate — not so much a matter of right and wrong — but the meaning behind things and why it impacts people. So I feel he went into this wanting people to analyze and discuss the performance.  

Do you see parallels between your role as a Black male educator and what Lamar does with his art?   

Yes! I see one great parallel between what Lamar does and what I do — and it’s something I used to talk to him about — which is using your platform. I have a platform in the classroom and he has a platform on the stage. My platform is to give students wisdom, encouragement and understanding of what the future could look like for them. On stage, Lamar’s platform is to express what it feels like to live in an inner city, for those who have never been to an inner city, and to give people hope. A lot of his music deals with hope. It may not come in the way people expect, the music may have some colorful words every now and then, but at the end of the day, it’s about expression. I’m very happy he’s using his platform to share hope and not expressing negative aspects of hip hop that can sometimes come from the big stage.  

This Black History Month, are there any teachable moments that can be extracted from the halftime performance?  

The art of creativity. African-Americans were historically stripped of their creativity when brought over to this country, and here we are in the present where I feel the renaissance is coming back out and through hip hop — which is a creative outlet on its own — in music.  

When I saw all of the intentional choreography, I felt Lamar used the halftime show performance as a whole to salute Black history and I believe it was presented from the standpoint of how, from the beginning of our existence in this country, our poise and livelihood as Black-Americans flourishes when we are being creative.

Tell us about Lamar as a student. What unique qualities did he exhibit as a student, if any? Was there any indication early on that he had exceptional potential? 

One of the things I remember about him is that he was very quiet, which may be a little strange for others to hear considering this megastar can get on stage in front of hundreds of thousands of people to perform song after song. But when I taught him in the seventh grade, I felt he was academically sound for his age and just needed someone to push him in the right direction. 

I spent a lot of time instilling in Lamar that vocabulary is super important. When my students go out and speak in public, I want them to be prepared to use language comparable to their age group. So for his assignments, I would circle words on his paper he could improve on and give him a thesaurus to identify synonyms for those words to deepen his vocabulary. I told him I wanted him to have a little shock level because there is an understanding that people from Compton are not going to have the best profile. But I remember telling him I wanted him to be able to show people through his speech that he is sharp, strong, an academic … and not someone who is only successful on YouTube and on social media. 

How do you help students connect to their creativity and writing with activism and social justice? How do you think this shaped Lamar as the artist we know today?   

Connection with students is extremely important to me as an educator. I believe in this connection because it helps me understand how my students operate and I’m able to have a plan on how to individually impact each one of their lives both in and out of the classroom.  

It’s also very important for me to understand culture. I need to know what’s going on at home and their environments because I am aware I can’t teach everyone the same. When students believe in you just like you believe in them, you create a family dynamic in the classroom. I have always been a family-oriented teacher and once I have a student in my class, they are family forever. 

In that same dynamic with Lamar, he understands that people are going through things and wants to create music that makes people dance, but also invites listeners to think about their surroundings and to remind them there is a light out of the struggle if they work hard.

In your classroom, how do you encourage students to imagine, create and push boundaries in their own work? How do you believe Lamar’s schooling and upbringing in Compton translate into his character and art in the current political climate?  

One thing I do in my class when we are doing any type of creative writing, I tell students I will take the boundaries off of their assignments. That means if an essay or poem they’re writing causes them to say a word that isn’t deemed appropriate for school — as long as they don’t say it too many times — then it’s okay because I want them to say what they truly feel. Poetry is all about the five senses, and that in particular is not something I need to teach, but I just like to remind them of this so that when they are writing, they can reflect on their experiences and emotions. What I don’t want them to do is mute themselves so that what they’re writing isn’t what they feel.

I encouraged Lamar in the same way. At that time, many of my students were coming to school very angry and if something causes trauma, frustration or an inertia of energy building up, students have to be able to get it out. Expanding the boundaries in class was the thing that helped. 

Lamar’s music, especially in his later albums, has been known to be deeply shaped by themes of social change, inequality, activism and criticism of politicians. Do you think you saw the beginnings of this in his early writings in classroom assignments or discussions? 

I didn’t really see writings of social consciousness from Lamar. When you’re in the seventh grade, you’re typically going off of what the teacher is assigning. But I remember his passion for writing was unique and different from his classmates. Some of his writings were a little more thought-provoking. What happens is when you’re focused on writing and passionate about your writing, as you get older and start to see more outside of your city, surroundings and community, you will start to see gaps. When you start to see gaps, when you start to feel frustration. When you start to feel frustration, you start to express it. 

With Lamar, he expressed his feelings in class through his writing and does the same thing as an artist. Now, we are here today with someone who is expressing a full emotional closet, from his joy to his insecurities to his trauma throughout his music.

Compton Unified has recently been ranked first in reading performance, surpassing pre-pandemic levels in both math and reading, according to the Ed Recovery Scorecard. Given Lamar’s rise from Compton to global recognition, how do you think his journey can inspire students in fostering the art of storytelling? 

One thing I feel that our students of today can be inspired by Lamar’s journey is to understand the art of working hard and being passionate. Even though students are doing well, they need to continue to work hard.

Sometimes social media waters down the art of working hard to achieve goals. Since I know Lamar personally, I have the ability to give students a bird’s eye view of what it takes on a day-to-day basis to earn Grammys and to be the first hip hop artist to be given a Pulitzer Prize winner, which is no small feat. 

I give my students an understanding of how many hours it could take for Lamar and his team to make one song or the amount of songs he writes that fans will never get to hear on the radio. This is about a lifelong journey of trying to do your best in every aspect of your life. 

I use Lamar as a [symbol] of hope because he came from Compton. And while my students may not become a Kendrick Lamar, perform on stage or emerge into a world-renowned artist, I want them to understand what it takes to get to a level of success to be world-renowned in other industries and professions. 

What’s something that most of the world probably doesn’t know about Lamar?  

I’m most proud of the person Lamar is off stage. I love the man he’s become and the person he is striving to be.

When I taught him, he enjoyed being around his friends and sat next to his cousin in my class. Now, I can see the same regard for relationships in his life. He likes to be present with family. He doesn’t mind being vulnerable with himself and others he trusts in order to share about the insecurities he’s working on. It’s why I feel his music is very genuine … it’s debatable, you can talk about it and you can teach it. There are so many emotions that can be translated from his music. 

I don’t know how I would feel if I taught an artist and the nature of music was very negative and went against everything I believed as a person. But I thank God I get the privilege of being associated with someone who is out here, making an impact, making music that gives people hope and encourages them.  

Staring down the nearly 80-year history of modern suburbia, Herold finds that the effort produced mostly “disposable communities” across the country. While they served their first few sets of residents — his family included — they have failed to deliver the promise of the American Dream to the families of color who followed. Case in point: He notes that in the north of Dallas, where his reporting takes him, Black mortgage loan applications are now denied at a rate 23 percentage points higher than those of white applicants with similar incomes.

And while many families sought suburban homes in large part for their superior schools, even that isn’t a given anymore, he finds — especially if you’re not white or born in the U.S.A. Instead of an educational upgrade, he reports, many families now find troubled, underfunded schools, intractable bureaucracies, teachers’ union contracts that make “any wholesale changes difficult” and, perhaps worst of all, maddening discrimination in the very place where they’d sought refuge.

A longtime Education Week staffer who now teaches journalism at Temple University, Herold spent four years examining the historical record and found a pattern: As suburbs age, municipal revenues often fall, even as the costs of maintaining infrastructure rise. An “entrenched culture of political backscratching and can-kicking” exacerbates these problems.

In one suburban district in Evanston, Ill., outside of Chicago, crusading superintendent Paul Goren tells Herold, “I landed in a district that had a foundation of quicksand. It was wobbly on the instructional side, with lots of people doing their own thing because that was what they had done for years. We were [also] facing some level of financial doom.”  

Eventually, Herold writes, what befell so many suburbs was what he calls a “relentless cycle of racialized development and decline that took root after World War II, then sucked huge swaths of the country into a pattern of slash-and-burn development that functioned like a Ponzi scheme.”

His book, out Tuesday, follows five diverse families in suburban Atlanta, Chicago, Dallas, Los Angeles and Pittsburgh. He actually grew up in the Penn Hills neighborhood east of Pittsburgh, and finds one of his subjects just three doors down from his childhood home.

Herold spent years getting to know these families, offering a deeply reported and closely observed account of five families’ struggles to capture what his family so easily enjoyed. 

����Ӱ��’s Greg Toppo caught up with Herold earlier this month.

This interview has been lightly edited for length and clarity. 

����Ӱ��: You note at the outset that you’re a suburban kid, raised in Penn Hills. Things for you went as they were supposed to. Yet you report that your dad ended up selling your childhood home in 2014 for one-fourth of what it was worth, to a guy he met on Craigslist. Is this the inevitable fate of inner-ring suburbs like yours? What’s at play here? Why don’t suburbs work anymore, and how do public schools play a part in this failure?

Benjamin Herold: Suburbia worked great for my middle-class white family and millions of others like us who received guaranteed mortgage loans, massive tax breaks and sparkling new infrastructure, including public schools we got decades to mold in our own image. But all that was made possible by trading short-term wealth for massive debts and liabilities that we pushed off on to future generations. Eventually, the bills come due. That’s what we’re seeing now.

You write that America’s suburbs since World War II have resembled a kind of Ponzi scheme that has stuck later investors with the bill. So we’re in the “after” part of the cycle, right?

All too often, it’s newer suburban families of color who get stuck paying for all the opportunity that whiter and wealthier families like mine already extracted. Because this cycle plays out over large geographies and multiple generations, it can be difficult to recognize when we take snapshots of a single suburban community at a single point in time. That’s why I followed five families living in five suburban communities that are each at a different stage of this process.

It’s also why public schools are such a valuable lens — we can only really see the bigger picture when we pay close attention to the anger, frustration and disillusionment that so many suburban parents feel when they’ve done everything right, yet still have to deal with their children being called racial slurs, subjected to unfair discipline and denied access to opportunities like gifted programs.

Just three doors down from your old house in Penn Hills, you knock on a door and find one of your five subjects: Bethany Smith, a Black woman who bought the place with her mother. That Bethany’s experience is so different from your family’s seems to reveal what you’re getting at in the book. Tell us about her. [Note: Herold uses pseudonyms for all of his subjects with the exception of Smith, who writes the book’s epilogue.]

Bethany’s family and mine wanted the same things: a quiet street, good public schools, homes that steadily increase in value, systems and services that just work. The difference is that my white family got most of those things without paying full price, while Bethany’s family had to pay extra to receive declining services, a school district that was raising taxes and slashing services and a stagnant housing market. 

Your subjects — almost all of whom are people of color — seem in many ways left to their own devices when it comes to pursuing these dreams in mostly crumbling, formerly white suburbs. What should communities be doing differently to help these families?

That’s the wrong question. Here’s why: In suburban Atlanta, I followed a middle-class Black family named the Robinsons. Both parents have advanced degrees, good jobs, rich social networks, and a strong spiritual foundation. Both also unabashedly love learning. Nika, the mom, was pursuing her PhD in public health, and Anthony, the dad, was a network engineer and former middle school teacher who stayed up late each night re-teaching geometry concepts to his teen son. Both parents were extremely active in their children’s schools, volunteering in the library, going to every parent-teacher meeting and maintaining running email correspondence with their kids’ teachers. And both Nika and Anthony are extremely kind and funny to boot. So for me, the question becomes: How on earth does a well-regarded system like the Gwinnett County Public Schools not only fail to connect with a family like the Robinsons, but actively alienate them, by gradually whittling away their oldest son’s spirit, joy, and sense of self, despite the abundant resources, assets and gifts the Robinsons bring with them?

So how can we understand the Robinsons’ experience through your lens of suburban decline instead of incompetence at the school level?

By 2019, Gwinnett County was nearly two-thirds Black, Hispanic, Asian, and multiracial. But in many ways, the Gwinnett County Public Schools operated as if it were still the early 1990s, when the population it served was still 90 percent white. During the period I write about, this was evident in big racial disparities in school discipline and access to gifted programs; Black and brown children now made up about two-thirds of all the district’s students, but barely one-third of the kids the district identified as gifted and talented.

Above all, though, this dynamic was evident in the district’s leadership. Prior to 2018, Gwinnett had somehow never elected a person of color to its five-member school board, which was largely controlled by three older white women, one of whom had held her seat for 47 years, and all of whom were vocal in their beliefs that changing the way things had always been in order to reflect the priorities and values of a changing population was tantamount to diluting the quality of the education the district offered. There was plenty of incompetence, but it occurred within the larger context of a $2.3 billion organization with policies, practices, and personnel that too often showed flagrant disregard for the majority of families it served. 

Eventually, things start to fall apart for nearly all of your subjects, it seems. Even the Beckers, a conservative and affluent white family, ultimately give up on the public schools in their exclusive Dallas exurb after a single year. They end up in a private Christian academy in a Plano strip mall. That makes me wonder: Is at least some of the “unraveling” you’re describing just the messiness of life, parent restlessness writ large?

I approached writing Disillusioned from two angles. I wanted to illuminate a big economic, social, and political pattern that we all now live within because America is such a suburban nation. I also wanted to explore the choices everyday families make and the lives we build as we try to figure out our relationship to that pattern. So I don’t think the Beckers’ relentless search for better schools is separate or distinct from the cycle of suburban churn they’re trying to navigate. As with the rest of us, these larger forces help determine the available options, and the choices we make in turn help shape those larger forces. 

You note throughout the book that Black and brown students have always had a fraught relationship with their suburban schools: “For so long,” you write, “so much of suburbia had been organized around trying first to keep those kids out, then treating them as a problem to be managed.” Yet in Compton, Calif., which is now almost entirely Black and brown, you find a measure of promise. Can you say more?

Jefferson Elementary in Compton is housed in a ramshackle facility consisting of several rundown bungalow buildings with narrow slits for windows that are almost reminiscent of a prison. But what I saw inside Jefferson and Compton Unified was a multiracial collection of adults — including a Black superintendent and school board chair, a Filipino principal, and a Latino fourth-grade teacher whose classroom I followed — who were unflagging in their belief that Compton’s children were bursting with talent and deserved all the opportunities and supports the system could muster. 

One of my favorite little examples of this was a narrative essay the fourth-graders were asked to write. The kids had to describe what a typical day would look like if they worked at . A boy named Jacob, whose family I was following, wrote this incredible piece about designing new droids and prototyping new light sabers and having water-cooler conversations with George Lucas. Between assignments like that, after-school robotics clubs, the chance to create a class newspaper, engineering lessons through [a well-regarded STEM-focused curriculum], and a class-wide mock trial, the kids were flooded with opportunities to imagine themselves shaping America’s future. And Superintendent Darin Brawley was extremely intentional about this, at a very big-picture level — he recognized that his retirement and his own family’s progress would depend on how well he prepared the students in Compton Unified, and so he took that responsibility not just seriously, but personally.

Your idea to pay Bethany Smith, the Penn Hills mom, to write the book’s epilogue strikes me as a bold choice. She’s quite blunt, for the record, writing that white people “are always fucking some shit up, then expecting everybody else to go fix it.” Why, among all of your subjects, does she deserve the last word? After the century-long narrative you’ve woven, is this the message you want readers to take away?

I love Bethany’s epilogue. I think it’s just tremendous. I’m so grateful she agreed to write it, and I’m even more grateful she was willing to get really, really honest, even when doing so was painful for her and unflattering for me. 

A central question drove me to give four years of my life to this project. I wanted to know how the opportunities my white family enjoyed in Penn Hills a generation ago are connected to the declining fortunes of the families who live in Penn Hills now. And I think Bethany’s epilogue really helped capture and communicate the answer. But it took me a long-time to actually be able to really hear what she was saying, in part because I had to shed a lot of my own illusions.

The breakthrough came when I finally realized I had to engage these questions emotionally, not just intellectually. And that meant putting under a microscope my own experience as a white person who grew up in suburbia, reaped its benefits and left behind a mess so I could go build a comfortable life somewhere else. Doing that made the book much richer, and that was a direct result of the challenge Bethany issued to me. So I’m extremely thankful to her, and to all the families and educators featured in this book who helped create a space that allowed all of us to give as much of our hearts as we felt comfortable sharing. 

Disclosure: Benjamin Herold received support from at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism. Greg Toppo is a Spencer Fellowship board member.