Future in the balance, Philadelphia teacher faces abuse charges

Those who know her best say Marianne Kennedy is a model teacher: caring, devoted, personally invested in children in one of the city's most desperate neighborhoods.

Philadelphia's Department of Human Services says she's something else: a child abuser, a label that could end her career, barring her from ever having contact with students again.

The disconnect stems from events at Willard Elementary in Kensington, witnessed and participated in by faculty including Kennedy's principal, who sought Kennedy's help in calming what they both say was an out-of-control 8-year-old.

Kennedy and the principal say her actions were professional and appropriate, more verbal than physical, and served to calm the troubled boy.

The child's guardian later reported Kennedy, the principal, the dean, and the school to DHS, which ruled only against Kennedy.

She was removed from her school in September.

On Tuesday, Kennedy will get a shot at getting her teaching career back. An administrative law judge is scheduled to hear the case on behalf of the state DHS, ruling whether the city agency erred in determining that Kennedy is guilty of child abuse.

Kennedy's colleagues at Willard have already made their determination.

"What is happening to her," the Willard community, 70 people strong, wrote in a letter to Philadelphia School District leaders, "is a travesty of justice."

Kennedy's job title is "school-based teacher leader," colleagues say, but that doesn't cover what she means to the school on East Elkhart Street in Kensington.

For 20 years, Kennedy has been Willard's "heart and soul," principal Ron Reilly says.

She sends bags of food home on Fridays with kids she knows will be hungry over the weekend; when ice and snow made the school's yard unusable for weeks one winter, she organized staff with shovels and picks to clear it on their day off so children had someplace safe to play.

Kennedy, 43, has three children of her own, but Willard's 730 students are never far from Kennedy's mind.

"I'll get a call from her: 'When you're out this weekend, we need boys' socks, or if you go to ShopRite, get Pop-Tarts for the kids," said Kellyann McCloskey, who has worked with Kennedy for 17 years.

"There are talkers and there are doers, and she's a doer," Reilly said. "She's got a heart the size of Texas."

Kennedy isn't a classroom teacher, but as the lead teacher, she does a little bit of everything - helping coach colleagues, finding students services, training staff. She often worked with students who needed extra support, including the first-grade boy with a history of emotional trouble.

He could be funny, easygoing, and independent. He was energetic and he liked basketball, Kennedy said.

But he struggled often. By the time he was in first grade, he required a full-time one-on-one aide for his behavior issues. Both parents had drug problems, and early in 2016, his mother lost custody of him and a sibling. They went to live with an aunt.

After a visit with his mother, the boy became unmoored one week in June. He told staff he wanted to go home, that he missed his mother.

On June 16, Reilly was called to a first-grade classroom: The boy was lying on the floor, blocking anyone from leaving. Reilly repeatedly asked the boy to move, he said; the boy cursed, then told him his aunt would call the police on him. Reilly said if the boy didn't allow his teacher and classmates to pass, Reilly would be forced to physically move him.

Finally, Reilly did just that, placing his arms under the boy's and sliding him away from the door. The boy kicked Reilly and tried to punch him; he screamed for his mother.

Reilly called Kennedy on his walkie-talkie; the boy seemed to be responding well to her that week. Kennedy came quickly, crouching down on the floor with him.

"I said, 'You don't want to hit Mr. Reilly. We're all here to help you,' " Kennedy remembers. "I wasn't angry with him. I wasn't yelling at him."

The boy banged his head on the floor, and she put her hands underneath to keep him from injuring himself, Kennedy said. Eventually, he got up and willingly walked to her office. Later, he was calm enough to go back to class. But a few hours later, she got a call that an older student had choked the boy after the boy threw a block at the older student, who also had a record of trouble.

Reilly suspended the boy and his attacker for three days - through the end of the school year.

The boy's aunt called DHS.

Both the school district and Philadelphia DHS declined to comment on the case.

The aunt, who asked that her name be withheld, said the school failed to follow protocol, and that Kennedy and others were rough with the boy, that they threw him on the floor, grabbed his hands, twisted his fingers together. She said they sat on his back and held him on the floor, leaving marks on him.

"You're not allowed to do that," the aunt said, "no matter how bad he is."

It was deep into the summer before Kennedy heard another word. An email arrived from DHS saying she needed to report for a hearing.

Should she bring an attorney, she asked? No, the agency said - it's just a conversation.

In late July, she had an interview with a DHS caseworker.

"She kept saying to me, 'The school failed him,' " Kennedy said.

The caseworker questioned her as to why the boy had been singled out for a program for at-risk boys, Kennedy said, and asked why the older student who choked the boy had not been removed from Willard. She said the boy had almost died because of the choking incident, but Kennedy reminded her she was not present when that happened.

The specific charges against her were never articulated.

When it was over, the DHS worker told Kennedy the agency would be in touch. And they were, quickly, with a letter saying that child abuse was indicated. (Reilly and the Willard dean were cleared.)

The Philadelphia School District followed up with a hearing, then notice that because of the abuse indication, Kennedy would be fired.

In the meantime, she was assigned to report to a small room at the school district's headquarters with about 20 other teachers under investigation for improprieties: they call it "teacher jail."

Kennedy keeps busy with Willard administrative work - analyzing data, scheduling teacher preparation periods, keeping track of student attendance. She organized a Thanksgiving food drive from her perch.

Twice, Kennedy's termination was scheduled to be considered by the SRC. Twice, the Willard faculty showed up to meetings, dozens of teachers standing together, testifying on Kennedy's behalf.

The commission delayed voting on Kennedy's fate both times.

Everything hinges on Tuesday's hearing, Kennedy said.

If the charges stand, Kennedy might never be able to teach again. But it also means more.

"If I want to go on a trip at my daughter's school, I have to have clearances," she said. "You want me to tell my 6-year-old that because somebody said something wrong, I can't be the snack mom in her class?"

And the troubled boy? Kennedy is not angry with him. "He's got issues, troubles, but we can't give up on him," she said. "He's a victim, even now."

McCloskey, Kennedy's colleague of 17 years, is optimistic that Kennedy will be cleared.

But her case, McCloskey and other supporters said, is a reflection on how dangerous it can be to be a public-school teacher.

"If this has happened to Marianne, who's done nothing but good for anyone, what's going to happen the next time a parent is unhappy?" McCloskey said. "It's scary."

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