#stand with Andrew Jackson High School

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By Micah Bradford

Founder, MiMa, Inc. | Direct Relief Initiative (DRI)

School began in Duval County approximately one month ago. From the first days of the 2026–2027 school year, families, students, and educators began reporting air-conditioning problems in school buildings. This was not a minor inconvenience. This was Florida in August: children attempting to learn and teachers attempting to teach in classrooms that were too hot.  Local reporting documented approximately 1,300 HVAC service calls during the first 11 school days. Duval County Public Schools later announced a dedicated HVAC service desk, described plans to increase maintenance funding, and sought expanded authority for emergency repairs. Those are actions—but they do not erase the days already spent in uncomfortable classrooms, and they do not cool a classroom that is still hot.

As DCPS Chief Operations Officer Jim Culbert publicly acknowledged, understanding does not cool a classroom. I agree. Students and staff deserve better.  The question is not whether HVAC systems sometimes fail. Machines break. The deeper question is what a public institution does when a foreseeable maintenance problem becomes an immediate human need.

Teachers Cannot Purchase Their Way Out of Systemic Failure

I have been a teacher for many years. Like countless educators, I have unconsciously spent thousands of dollars trying to make my classroom conducive to learning. I have purchased classroom materials, instruments, mouthpieces, reeds, drumsticks, replacement parts, food, and other necessities. Teachers regularly fill gaps to meet student needs, ease the load carried by parents, and keep instruction moving. But a teacher cannot personally repair a school’s air-conditioning system.

A parent can send bottled water. A teacher can bring a fan. A principal may relocate a class when another room is available. Those responses may offer temporary relief, but they are not solutions. They shift the burden of institutional failure onto the very people the institution exists to serve.

Imagine a parent caring for children in a home with a broken air conditioner. The parent has paid the electric bill, reported the problem, followed every instruction, and escalated the matter as far as possible. There is nowhere else to go and nothing else within that parent’s power to repair.

The parent must make the best of unbearable conditions while trying to calm children who cannot understand why the adults have not fixed the problem.

Now imagine a teacher doing that in a classroom full of children.

That is not simply a facilities issue. It is an emotional, instructional, health, and leadership issue.

The First Time I Saw My Mother Cry

I know what it feels like to watch a responsible adult reach the limit of what she can fix.  My mother was—and remains—one of the hardest-working and most independent women I have ever known. One of her strongest “isms” has always stayed with me: “If someone is going to give you something, they will give it.” In other words, do not beg anyone for anything. Work, handle your responsibilities, and maintain your dignity.

The first time I remember seeing my mother cry was during a crisis at our home. We had experienced serious septic-tank problems for an extended period. At one point, we were using buckets as toilets and dumping human waste in the bushes beside our house. The homes were spread apart, but distance did not make the situation any less humiliating or difficult.

A septic-service worker came and drained the tank. Almost immediately, it filled again. We were told that the cause involved a backup connected to nearby farmland. I was young, and I did not understand the infrastructure, the property responsibilities, or who legally owed what to whom. I understood only one thing: my mother had done what she was supposed to do, the problem remained, and she could not fix it herself.  She became overwhelmed and walked out of the backyard, trying not to let us see her cry. I caught up with her before she began walking down the street. I do not remember our exact words, but I remember the tears in her eyes. I remember watching her walk away. I remember being devastated and angry—angry at the man working the farmland, angry at the septic worker for not draining the tank again (it had taken sometime for mom to afford the first drain; she couldn't afford it), and ultimately angry because my mother was crying and I could do nothing about it.

That memory has never left me.

It taught me that helplessness is not the same as irresponsibility. Sometimes people have done everything within their power and are still trapped inside a problem controlled by someone else.

That is why the HVAC situation troubles me so deeply. Teachers can follow reporting procedures. Parents can call. Principals can submit work orders. Students can endure. Yet the people occupying the hottest classrooms have neither the authority nor the resources to repair the systems themselves.

When Does Human Need Supersede Administrative Process?

I am currently in Week 5 of an eight-week doctoral course (a similar one was taken on the Master's level) at the University of Phoenix titled The Economics of Education. The course has strengthened my understanding of educational finance, designated funding, budgeting models, procurement requirements, encumbrances, purchase orders, and the many controls intended to protect public resources.

Those controls matter. Accountability matters. Competitive procurement matters. Documentation matters.

But at what point does human need supersede the ordinary pace of administrative process?

More precisely: when a classroom becomes unsafe or functionally unsuitable for learning, what emergency authority exists, who is empowered to use it, and what is the required response time?

The public timeline matters: 

On August 11—the second day of school—local news reported complaints of air-conditioning problems and the district’s response. By August 21, after continuing reports and during dangerous heat, DCPS publicly discussed a dedicated HVAC service desk and an increased maintenance budget. Later reporting described approximately 1,300 service calls in 11 school days and a proposal that could make up to $6 million annually available for larger emergency repairs, alongside substantial HVAC funding planned for the next school year. Those steps may improve the district’s response capacity. 

The School Board’s approval of additional funding is better than inaction. But a budget vote is not, by itself, a victory. The true measure is whether classrooms are cooled, repair times are shortened, students are protected, and teachers can teach. A hotline receives a complaint. A work order records a complaint. A board item funds a response. Only a completed repair resolves the complaint.

The People Closest to the Problem Must Be Free to Speak

There is another question that school leaders must confront: At what point can the people trapped inside an administrative process—especially teachers—speak honestly about conditions without fearing subtle retaliation?

Employees should not have to choose between protecting students and protecting their careers. A healthy organization does not merely tolerate inconvenient information; it builds safe ways for employees to report it, verifies the report, communicates openly, and corrects the condition.

Teachers are often the first to observe how a facility problem affects concentration, behavior, attendance, health, morale, and instruction. Their voices should be treated as operational intelligence—not disloyalty.

If employees believe that speaking plainly may cost them assignments, opportunities, favorable evaluations, or future employment, leadership loses access to its most valuable early-warning system. Whether retaliation is formal, informal, provable, or merely feared, the chilling effect harms the institution and ultimately harms students.

Accountability Cannot Be a Lesson Reserved for Children

The HVAC controversy also arrives after troubling findings concerning school cafeteria renovations. In July 2026, Jacksonville’s Office of Inspector General reported permitting, inspection, and verification problems involving more than $30 million in food-service renovation work. Reported concerns included electrical work, gas connections, and mechanical installations. The OIG recommended safety inspections, verification of permits before project completion, contractor performance evaluations, and reviews of administrators who allowed improper work.

The OIG also reported that DCPS missed the requested response deadline. The district later apologized, said the communication had been inadvertently missed, and committed to a comprehensive response.

These facts do not prove that every maintenance decision was improper, nor do they prove that money was paid with no work performed. They do, however, raise serious questions about oversight, verification, communication, and institutional follow-through.

Schools teach children structure, routine, responsibility, accountability, and consequences. We tell students to arrive on time, complete their work, follow procedures, accept correction, and repair harm. Those expectations cannot apply only to children and classroom employees. They must also apply to contractors, department leaders, executive administrators, superintendents, and school boards.

Accountability loses its moral authority when it flows only downward.

“We Are Doing What Is Best for Students” Must Be Measurable

One of the most common phrases used to explain administrative decisions is: 

“We are doing what is best for students.”

That statement should never function as a shield against questions. It should be a measurable commitment.

What is best for students can be examined through evidence:

• How many classrooms are without effective cooling today?

• What temperatures are being recorded in occupied rooms?

• How many work orders remain unresolved, and for how long?

• What accommodations are provided while repairs are pending?

• How many instructional hours have been disrupted?

• Which schools experience repeated failures?

• What contractors are responsible, and how is performance verified?

• What protections allow teachers and families to report conditions without fear?

• When will the public receive a school-by-school progress report?

In the film Drumline, Dr. Lee confronts a student leader who has become consumed by conflict and reminds him that he has lost the vision. The point is larger than the scene: leadership fails when it becomes so occupied with controlling people and defending processes that it forgets the purpose the process was created to serve.

Duval County Public Schools must not lose the vision.

The purpose is not to manage complaints. The purpose is not to announce a hotline. The purpose is not to place an item on a board agenda. The purpose is not to produce language that limits institutional exposure.

The purpose is to provide safe, functional schools in which children can learn and adults can work.

A Direct-Relief Standard for Institutional Response

The Direct Relief Initiative is rooted in a simple conviction: when people have exhausted what they can do for themselves, systems and communities must respond with dignity, urgency, transparency, and practical relief.

Applied to the HVAC crisis, that means DCPS should publicly establish and report:

1. A clear emergency temperature standard that triggers immediate relocation, schedule modification, or other protective action.

2. A school-by-school HVAC status dashboard showing active outages, date reported, temporary accommodations, assigned repair resources, and estimated completion.

3. Defined response-time targets based on severity, with automatic executive escalation when deadlines are missed.

4. Independent verification of completed repairs rather than treating a closed work order as proof that the occupied space is comfortable and functional.

5. Protected reporting channels for employees, including an option to report conditions outside the immediate supervisory chain.

6. Public contractor-performance information, including repeated failures, missed deadlines, corrective actions, and consequences.

7. A post-crisis review identifying what was assumed, what actually happened, which decisions changed, and what will be completed before the next school year.

The district’s assumption may have been that activating systems early and using established maintenance procedures would be sufficient. The observed fact is that approximately 1,300 service calls were generated in the first 11 school days. The decision now must be to treat climate control in occupied schools as an urgent continuity-of-learning responsibility—not a routine inconvenience. The public should be given a firm date on which progress will be reviewed and reported.

More Can Be Done—Do It

Challenges can motivate children to dream, work, and build better lives. I know that firsthand.

But hardship should not be romanticized when responsible adults and public institutions have the power to prevent it.

Children do not need overheated classrooms to learn perseverance. Teachers do not need another impossible condition to prove their commitment. Parents do not need another number to call when they have already done everything they were told to do.

They need relief.

They need honest timelines.

They need visible accountability.

They need leaders who remember the vision and act with urgency.

To the decision-makers: the students and teachers inside these classrooms cannot repair the systems themselves. They should not be expected to purchase, improvise, endure, or remain silent their way out of an institutional failure.

More can be done for our children and teachers.

Do it.

Sources and Further Reading

• News4JAX. (2026, August 11). DCPS responds after parents report air-conditioning problems at Duval County schools.

• News4JAX. (2026, August 14). First Coast High students say some classrooms and cafeteria are still hot; DCPS outlines repair plan.

• News4JAX. (2026, August 21). “We hear you”: DCPS creates dedicated HVAC service desk and discusses plans to address outages.

• WOKV. (2026, September). Duval board weighs HVAC funding after 1,300 service calls in 11 days.

• Action News Jax. (2026, July 24). City of Jacksonville OIG report: Improper renovation work done in DCPS school cafeterias.

Micah Bradford

Founder, MiMa, Inc.

Direct Relief Initiative (DRI)

Advocacy. Leadership. Education. Service.

Mental Health Awareness Without Mental Health Empathy

"Are we truly embracing people with mental illness, or are we only embracing the conversation about mental illness?"

By Micah Bradford

Over the last several years, mental health has become one of the most discussed topics in America. Politicians mention it. School districts mention it. Employers mention it. Professional sports leagues mention it. Social media is filled with messages encouraging people to seek help.

On the surface, this appears to be progress.

But I often find myself asking a difficult question:

Have we truly become more empathetic toward people living with mental illness, or have we simply become more comfortable talking about mental health?

There is a difference.

Awareness means recognizing that a problem exists.

Empathy means understanding the human being living through that problem.

In my view, society has made tremendous gains in awareness while still struggling with empathy.

Too often, mental health becomes a reactionary talking point after a tragedy, a public incident, or a news headline. We express concern. We hold discussions. We create campaigns. Then, when the spotlight fades, many of the people living with mental illness continue facing the same challenges they faced before the conversation began.

As a person diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia in 2004, I have experienced this reality firsthand.

I remember being Baker Acted in 2004. I remember the confusion. I remember not fully understanding what was happening around me. I remember spending nearly two months in a treatment facility.

What I remember most, however, was what happened after I returned home.

I came home ashamed.

I came home feeling broken.

I came home feeling as though society viewed me differently.

Ironically, it was after the hospitalization that I truly began to feel "crazy."

Before then, I was simply trying to make sense of experiences I did not understand.

Like many people living with serious mental illness, I had a choice to make. I could surrender to the stigma surrounding my diagnosis, or I could continue fighting for my independence and purpose.

I chose to fight.

I continued working.

I continued teaching.

I continued pursuing professional goals.

I continued serving students and communities.

The journey was not easy.

There were setbacks, disappointments, emotional struggles, and periods where simply getting through the day required tremendous effort.

 Medication became a part of my life. 

Mental health treatment became a part of my life. 

Learning to accept my diagnosis became a part of my life.

Most importantly, perseverance became a part of my life.

The reality is that many people living with mental illness are not looking for sympathy.

They are looking for opportunity.

They are looking for dignity.

They are looking for the chance to continue contributing to society.

That is where I believe our conversations about mental health often fall short.

When a person with a mental illness misses work because of an approved medical leave, do we see a struggling human being who is doing their best to manage a serious health condition?

Or do we simply see an attendance problem?

When someone experiences difficulty maintaining employment because of a documented disability, do we see perseverance?

Or do we see inconvenience?

When a person with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, severe depression, or another psychiatric condition continues showing up despite enormous internal challenges, do we recognize the strength required to do so?

Or do we focus only on what they cannot do?

These questions matter because they reveal the difference between awareness and empathy.

Awareness says, "Mental illness exists."

Empathy says, "I understand this person is fighting a battle I may never fully see."

Awareness creates campaigns.

Empathy creates opportunities.

Awareness starts conversations.

Empathy changes outcomes.

Today, I am launching MiMa – Marching in Musical Advocacy, a nonprofit organization dedicated to music education, mentorship, leadership development, and community engagement. While many people will see the organization as an educational initiative, I see something else as well.

I see it as proof.

Proof that a diagnosis does not have to define a person's future.

Proof that individuals living with mental illness can continue to lead, create, mentor, teach, and serve.

Proof that perseverance deserves to be recognized alongside struggle.

My story is not one of perfection.

It is a story of survival.

It is a story of falling down and getting back up.

It is a story of continuing forward despite uncertainty, setbacks, stigma, and challenges.

Mental health awareness is important.

But awareness alone is not enough.

The next step is empathy.

And empathy is demonstrated not by what we say about mental illness, but by how we treat the people who live with it every day.

For those of us carrying these invisible burdens, that difference means everything.

“Service Is Cool…Self-Preservation Is Even Better”

In Honor of Mr. Ernest Wade

An Advocacy Reflection on Music Education, Service, Burnout, and the Value of Black Educators

There are some educators whose impact cannot be measured by contracts, certifications, or payroll documents. Their influence lives in students, communities, cultures, and memories. Mr. Ernest Wade was one of those educators.

I was deeply saddened to recently learn that Mr. Wade passed away in January of 2023. Somehow, in the midst of life, personal struggles, professional battles, caregiving responsibilities, and mental exhaustion, the news escaped me until this year, 2026. When I realized it, it hit me hard.

Mr. Wade was not just another band director. He was a builder. A culture creator. A motivator. A servant-leader whose work with the Southside Middle School Band began drawing national attention. The students believed in him because he believed in them.

I first met Mr. Wade during my first year as band director at Andrew Jackson High School around the 2017–2018 school year, as preparations were underway for the Melanin Market “Black History Day” Parade. Even in our earliest interactions, there was an immediate mutual respect. There was a lot of unnecessary political and administrative noise happening around us at the time — the kind of non-student-centered confusion many educators know all too well. Mr. Wade quickly recognized that I was not interested in the games, politics, or personalities. I was focused on students, growth, and music.

And he respected that.

REAL recognized REAL.

We discussed many things — music, rehearsal philosophy, student development, and the intensity of his schedule. I remember thinking his rehearsal load was extremely demanding considering the number of performances his group actually had. As someone who has long advocated for efficiency, mental balance, and healthier structures for secondary music programs, I meant to revisit that conversation with him later.

I never got the chance.

As the years passed, I became consumed with my own professional struggles, educational leadership studies, caregiving responsibilities, personal loss, and mental health challenges. Life kept moving. But a few days ago, while intentionally taking a break and reflecting, Mr. Wade’s spirit crossed my mind heavily.

And one painful thought immediately entered my heart:

“Did they work my brother to death?”

That question is not an accusation. It is an uncomfortable reflection on the culture surrounding service professions — especially education, music education, and community-centered work.

The reality is that many music educators, particularly Black music educators in underserved communities, are celebrated publicly while simultaneously being underpaid, unsupported, overworked, and emotionally drained behind the scenes. In Florida — a state consistently ranked near the bottom nationally in teacher compensation — the situation becomes even more alarming when certification status enters the equation.

To my understanding, Mr. Wade was not a state-certified music educator through the Florida Department of Education. I do not know the full details of his pathway, what advice he was given, what barriers he encountered, or what steps he may have been taking toward certification. What I do know is this:

Systems often benefit tremendously from passionate people willing to sacrifice themselves for “the mission.” And sometimes those systems never stop to ask whether the servant is surviving.

In many districts, non-certified band directors or auxiliary instructors may receive compensation equivalent to club supplements — essentially the same financial category as a chess club sponsor or other extracurricular assignment. Yet these individuals often build full marching programs, rehearse tirelessly, transport equipment, mentor children emotionally, serve communities culturally, and generate recognition for schools and districts that proudly celebrate the success publicly.

But where was the real investment?

Who stepped in and said:

“This man is too valuable to be struggling financially.”

“This educator deserves professional development support.”

“This servant deserves preservation.”

“This work deserves sustainable compensation.”

Too often, people applaud sacrifice while doing little to reduce the burden creating the sacrifice. And in Black educational spaces especially, there exists a dangerous cultural expectation that passion should compensate for exploitation.

We romanticize exhaustion.

We glorify burnout.

We praise people for “giving everything they have” without asking whether they have anything left for themselves.

That mindset is dangerous.

Service is honorable. 

But self-preservation matters too.

Mental health matters too.

Rest matters too.

Financial stability matters too.

Longevity matters too.

What troubles me most is knowing that Mr. Wade likely loved those students enough to ignore his own limitations. Many of us in education have done it. We stay late. We overextend. We sacrifice financially. We absorb emotional trauma. We neglect our own health because the students need us. But eventually, somebody must ask:

Who is protecting the protector?

Who is preserving the servant?

Who is making sure the people carrying entire communities are not collapsing under the weight?

As I reflect now, I cannot help but think about conversations I wish we could have had again. I wish I could have revisited our discussions about workload, balance, efficiency, and sustainability. I wish I could have encouraged him more strongly to preserve himself while serving others. I wish I could have shared some of the ideas surrounding mentorship models that prioritize impact without requiring people to sacrifice their health, families, peace, and livelihood.

That reflection is part of why initiatives like the MiMa Youth Leadership & Music Mentorship Program matter so deeply to me now. The goal is not simply to produce performances. The goal is to build healthy ecosystems where educators, clinicians, mentors, and students can grow without destroying themselves in the process.  Because our communities do not merely need great educators.

We need surviving educators.

We need supported educators.

We need educators who can live long enough to enjoy the impact they made.

Mr. Ernest Wade made an impact that cannot be erased. His students will carry pieces of him forever. His work mattered. His service mattered. His heart mattered. But perhaps one of the greatest ways we can honor him moving forward is by finally confronting a difficult truth:

Passion should never be used as justification for exploitation.

Rest in Heaven, Mr. Wade.

Your work was seen. 

Your sacrifice was seen. 

And your life mattered far beyond the marching field.