I used to teach elementary school. I’ve worked in early childhood policy, sat on education boards, and am a parent of two kids. So, I no longer see school funding as just a line item—I see it as a living ecosystem. One that touches every part of how we grow up, how we govern, and how we feed both bodies and minds.
And when you take $169 million out of that ecosystem? You starve it.
Let’s be clear about the headline: $169 million in federal education funding, already appropriated for North Carolina public schools, is being withheld by the Trump administration.
That’s not just a number. That’s breakfasts unserved, teaching assistants laid off, classroom repairs delayed, and after-school programs canceled. In rural and urban schools alike, it means the things children need most—predictability, nutrition, safety—get pushed to the side while adults debate in far-off chambers.
Let’s talk about food
Schools aren’t just places where children learn to read. They’re where many children eat their only consistent meal of the day. When funding disappears, so do food programs—especially the locally grown, nutritionally rich ones that require coordination between cafeterias, farmers, and county budgets.
This is North Carolina—a state with deep agricultural roots. Our school meals should be built from what we grow: sweet potatoes, collards, strawberries, milk, and cornmeal. But farm-to-school programs rely on investment. So, when funds vanish, kids get boxed meals with shelf-stable processed food, while nearby farmers struggle to stay in business.
It’s a cruel irony. The same week students go hungry, local produce goes unsold. That’s what happens when we treat food as a commodity instead of a public good. When we sever schools from farms, and children from land, we lose more than money—we lose the muscle memory of community.
What are public schools for?
Public schools are more than academic institutions—they are community anchors, disaster shelters, polling places, nutrition hubs, and neighborhood stabilizers. When we underfund them, we’re not just weakening the education system—we’re weakening the civic infrastructure that holds us all together.
That’s why this $169 million shortfall hits differently. It isn’t just about teacher salaries or textbooks (though those both matter deeply). It’s about the entire network of care that makes public life possible:
The school nurse who catches the first signs of asthma before a child ends up in the ER. The cafeteria worker who packs extra food on Fridays for kids who won’t eat again until Monday. The bus driver who is the first adult a child sees each morning—and often the steadiest.
Public schools are one of the last remaining public goods that serve everyone—regardless of income, zip code, or political party. When we defund them, we say that children’s futures are negotiable. That community stability is optional. That public life itself can be privatized.
This isn’t just education policy. It’s a moral test.
When federal funds are withheld, and states like ours already dodge their constitutional obligations (see: Leandro), it’s easy for people to tune out. But that’s exactly the problem. We’ve grown numb to numbers, disconnected from consequences.
So let me bring it home:
That $169 million could support thousands of teaching assistants—most of whom are women of color, holding schools together on poverty wages. It could modernize HVAC systems in aging schools where students are breathing mold. It could expand partnerships between school districts and small farms—keeping our children healthy and our economy rooted.
But none of that happens if we accept political theater over public trust.
So, what can we do?
We start by remembering what schools represent: the original community commons. A place where futures are planted like seeds—and either watered with investment or left to dry up under budget shortfalls.
We don’t have to accept scarcity as inevitable. We don’t have to pit programs against each other. We can demand better—from Raleigh, from Washington, and ourselves.
Local giving helps. Advocacy helps. Voting helps. But more than anything, reframing our mindset helps. Public schools, public food, and public life are not luxuries. They are infrastructure, just as vital as bridges and roads—and far more human.
So, if you’ve ever cared about a child, shared a meal, or voted in a school gym, this story is yours too.
The question isn’t just “Where did the money go?”
It’s: What kind of future are we growing—and who gets to harvest it?
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