What a Principal Can Build—Or Break
Some principals look for what’s going well. They notice effort. They build from trust.
Others walk around with a clipboard and a red pen.
I’ve worked under both kinds.
I still remember my first supervisor who gave me all zeros on my evaluation. Every category. Not because of anything I did or didn’t do—but because he could. No feedback. No coaching. Just a message: you don’t matter here. That stays with you.
Another principal suspended me for answering a parent’s question—“What time should I drop off my child?”—with a simple reply: “7:45am.” No greeting, no sign-off. That was the issue.
Another time, I was teaching 104 third graders in one room. Alone. I invented a clapping game to keep them focused—half the room echoed one rhythm, the other side responded. At one point I said, “Here are the winners, and here are the losers! Who wants to try again?” in a funny voice. The kids laughed. They stayed engaged. He suspended me for “calling them losers.”
He once dropped my evaluation from “exemplary” to “proficient”—even though I’d met every target we’d outlined at the beginning of the year. His reason? “Your data was too good.” Not wrong—just too good.
I once was reprimanded for calling myself a “band director,” claiming that “directors are administrative positions.” That was the level of micromanagement. It wasn’t about improvement. It was about authority.
When principals lead from fear, they don’t create accountability—they create anxiety. Teachers retreat. Creativity dies. Collaboration ends. You spend your planning period second-guessing your tone in an email instead of thinking about how to help your students.
I had principals say they doubted I had a stroke and had language issues because I could also lead a chorus and band.
But not all principals are like that.
Ron Bagala was my first real principal. I was 22, in a faraway state, teaching five sections of band. I had the last two periods free and would often sit in the main office—just to be around people. One day I doodled a little sketch of Mr. B standing at the counter. It wasn’t good. I’m maybe a 2 out of 10 as an artist. A few days later, I walked in and saw it: framed, hanging on the wall. He never said anything. He just made room for me.
Another principal used to sit with me in the front office every morning before everyone arrived. We’d read the newspaper together (pre-internet), talk sports, talk about the day. At lunch, he sat in the lobby—not to supervise, just to be present. Teachers came and sat with him. Not because they had to, but because it felt like a safe place to be.
And there’s one moment I’ll never forget. I was at an important family funeral. I turned and saw the principal walk in. No announcement. No attention. He just showed up. That’s all. That’s what mattered.
That’s what real leadership looks like. Not checklists or command. Presence. Trust. Quiet strength.
Bad principals make schools smaller. They shrink possibility, creativity, morale.
The good ones don’t need to make a show of power—they build something worth staying for.
If I’m still teaching, it’s because a few principals knew how to see people. They showed up. They made space. And they never needed to be asked.