Our local news recently aired what appeared to be a heartwarming story: district leaders and our governor making celebratory calls to families whose children have excellent attendance. On the surface, it looked like positive engagement, a feel-good moment highlighting student success. What it did not address, however, are the very real systemic barriers fueling Oregon’s attendance crisis. Watching district leadership respond as it always has, by uplifting the students already thriving within the system, was disheartening.
The students who have been struggling, and continue to struggle, remain invisible. And the underlying message to families who are already blamed and forgotten is painfully clear: your experience doesn’t matter. What our governor and, I suspect, many legislators, don’t realize is that the children falling through the cracks internalize this as their failure. It is not their failure. It is ours.
What’s missing from these stories is the why behind absenteeism, and all the nuance that surrounds it. Once again, people who clearly do not understand that behavior is communication have responded with the same old logic: that celebrating those already “winning” will somehow motivate others to try harder. How, after all we’ve learned about what drives behavior, do we still have leaders relying on conventional tactics to decrease it?
Dr. Stuart Ablon of Think:Kids and Dr. Ross Greene, author of The Explosive Child and Lost at School, have both laid the groundwork for a more compassionate and effective approach: helping children (and the adults who support them) solve problems collaboratively — by listening, validating, and understanding. Our district has invested thousands of dollars in professional development built around these very principles. But when those strategies are never fully implemented — when the practice stops at the training room door — what good are they?
Absenteeism is not about apathy. According to the Oregon Department of Education 2022–23 Statewide Report Card, nearly 38% of Oregon students were chronically absent, meaning they missed at least 10% of the school year. That number isn’t the result of students or families “not caring.” It reflects the mounting barriers and unmet needs that make consistent attendance feel impossible for thousands of children. Research consistently shows that absenteeism is driven by factors such as transportation challenges, unstable housing, mental and physical health concerns, family crises, and disconnection from the school community. For many students, it is not about lack of motivation; it’s about lack of access. What was missing from that news story was the dialogue around how to help students and families facing those barriers.
According to the Oregon Health Authority’s 2024 report on student well-being, 23% of students reported feeling defeated or socially isolated, and many said they don’t seek help because they don’t feel taken seriously by adults. That should stop every one of us in our tracks. If students don’t feel heard, safe, or believed, how can we expect them to show up, physically or emotionally, in our classrooms? For many, absenteeism isn’t about lack of motivation; it’s about lack of connection.
Even well-meaning PTOs and schools often rely on conventional ways to build community — movie nights, spirit weeks, and themed events that seem inclusive on the surface but, in reality, mostly serve students whose families have the time, money, or transportation to participate. Recently, I sat outside one of those family movie nights with a student who couldn’t attend. The smell of popcorn drifted through the air as he watched his classmates file in with stuffed animals and blankets. His family was late to pick him up — they drive for DoorDash in the evenings, and he rides along. He sat on the curb and cried. No one from the school checked on him, except to ask that he stop pulling on the balloons at the door.
The school’s attempt at connection only deepened the isolation of one of the children most desperate to belong. Families often struggle to participate not because they don’t want to be involved, but because they can’t — financially, logistically, or emotionally. Spirit Weeks, for example, can become quiet reminders of exclusion for students who can’t afford to buy college gear or themed costumes. Those kids learn to mask hurt with indifference. They’ll roll their eyes and call it “dumb,” not because they don’t care, but because caring feels too vulnerable when you’ve already learned you don’t fit in.
Furthermore, how can a child want to participate in a community that so often shows them they are not welcome in it? For many students facing exclusionary practices: being sent home early, placed on shortened school days, or told they’re “not ready” to be in class — participation isn’t just difficult, it feels pointless. These students learn early that school is a place where their presence depends on their compliance, not their right to belong. Over time, the message becomes internalized: you can stay if you can behave like everyone else.
But behavior is communication, and when we respond to communication with exclusion, we silence the very children who most need that connection.
On paper, the numbers look promising. My district, for example, reported a 24% decline in in-school and out-of-school suspensions between 2017 and 2023. But what those numbers don’t show are the early dismissals, shortened days, or “temporary online placements” that never make it into the data. Those quiet removals are still happening every day, and they are the very practices eroding belonging and engagement for the students most at risk.
The quiet part out loud is that there has been more emphasis on reframing or redefining exclusion than on actually reducing it. The data may look better because it’s been renamed. Early pickup calls happen daily. Full days spent isolated in small rooms are how many disabled students spend their time. Off-site “temporary” placements that students rarely transition out of have become permanent holding patterns for some. And when those programs run out of space, because no one is transitioning back, families are told their child’s safest option is online schooling. It’s recorded as “parent choice,” but that’s not choice; that’s survival.
Early pickup calls are not documented as suspensions, so they disappear from the data entirely. Yet, they cause enormous harm. Families lose wages when they have to leave work on short notice, and children internalize a steady, devastating message: you are not safe, and you do not belong at school with your peers. For those of us who understand trauma, we know what comes next — increased stress, anxiety, and behavior that looks “defiant” but is actually pain. Instead of reducing behavior, these practices create more of it. Every time a student is informally removed, we teach them that their hardest moments make them unworthy of community. And then we wonder why they stop wanting to be part of it.
What our children need from both district leadership and state legislators is a voice. Their experiences in the system are every bit as valid as those families being celebrated for good attendance and good behavior.
We can do better, but we cannot do better if we refuse to acknowledge how the system is failing these kids.
Some educators and administrators point fingers at struggling students and families, but often it’s because they’ve thrived within the system themselves. Anyone who has ever been excluded from it recognizes the pattern: conform and comply, or you don’t belong. How long can we allow that message to define who gets to be part of public education in Oregon or across the nation?
I recently co-founded a nonprofit with a team of the most incredible educators and humans I know. Together, we believe that every child deserves access to their education and that by listening and understanding their challenges, we can build belonging and acceptance. In a surprise to no one, our district formally told us they were not interested in partnering with our program. They didn’t see a need. It was a painfully clear example of the larger issue: we can’t fix what we won’t face. If leadership refuses to acknowledge the students who are being failed, how can anything change? Our program, BEAM, serves those forgotten children, and they are every bit as worthy of celebration as the ones being recognized for perfect attendance.
This is where accountability must begin. States cannot continue to celebrate improved data while ignoring how those numbers are achieved. Oregon needs transparent reporting that includes early pickups, shortened school days, and online “placements” — every form of exclusion that keeps a child from accessing learning. We need legislative oversight that centers the lived experiences of students and families, not just the perspectives of district administrators. And we need funding for community-based programs that are already doing the work — organizations like BEAM and others across Oregon that catch the children the system quietly leaves behind. These programs aren’t competition; they’re collaboration. They fill the gaps schools cannot currently fill, offering connection, co-regulation, and belonging to the students who need it most.
If Oregon truly wants to reduce absenteeism and build stronger school communities, it has to start by redefining what belonging means. Belonging is not earned through compliance. It’s built through connection. It looks like a child being met with curiosity instead of correction, a family being invited into partnership instead of blame, a teacher being supported rather than stretched beyond capacity. Until we face the quiet truths about how our systems exclude and punish, we’ll keep failing the same group of students. Every child deserves to be seen, supported, and celebrated, not for perfect attendance, but for being part of a community that refuses to give up on them.
