Let me take you back to my Brooklyn. Before the block became a movie set for gentrified dreams, it was something else entirely. It was home. In the late '90s, I would walk to my zoned elementary school, a big red building, where the faces reflected my own. I was raised in a residential building that mirrored the borough itself: diverse, vibrant and full of life.
By the time I was a teenager, the faces around me had slowly shifted — it was like watching my community erode. Slowly and steadily, the familiar smells of sofrito, curry and incense gave way to the sterile scent of new construction. My parents paid rent at this building for over 30 years, but were never invited to the co-op board meetings. We were treated like the problem to be solved. Eventually, the pushout came, and the message was loud and clear: This neighborhood holds opportunity, just not for you.
Two decades later, as an educator living in Brooklyn, I returned to visit my old elementary school, hoping for a spark of nostalgia. But when I walked through the doors, I scanned the faces in the classrooms and hallways. Over 65 percent white. My stomach sank. The diverse little ecosystem I remembered was gone. Pushed out, just like my family. Interestingly, the school rating of my old elementary school is now 8 out of 10 on GreatSchools.com. At some point, when we analyze the data, the correlation has to be taken more seriously. Predominantly white neighborhoods often correlate with predominantly white schools, which in turn are linked to higher property values and tax revenue. This frequently results in greater funding for local schools, yielding better resources, highly qualified teachers, robust programming and unsurprisingly, higher school ratings.
This pattern is deeply problematic because it reinforces systemic inequities that disadvantage Black, Latinx and low-income students. When education funding is tied to neighborhood wealth — often shaped by the legacy of redlining and housing discrimination — students in affluent areas benefit from opportunity-rich environments, while those in historically marginalized communities are left behind. Underfunded schools face overcrowded classrooms, outdated materials, limited extracurriculars and fewer college and career preparation pathways. These disparities don’t reflect differences in ability, they reflect differences in access.
This fosters disengagement, contributing to higher dropout rates and fueling a cycle of inequity that persists into adulthood. The result is a system where ZIP codes function as gatekeepers to opportunity, not because of merit, but because of inherited structural advantage. That’s not just unfair, it’s a fundamental injustice.
How Redlining and Gentrification Influence Education Policies
This modern funding pattern isn’t accidental; it echoes a much older system of structural exclusion. Housing discrimination from the 1930s to 1960s led to generational wealth disparities, unequal access to resources and residential segregation. These historical policies have bled into current education policies that perpetuate cycles of inequity in the K–12 system and have led to de facto school segregation. Although explicit segregation was ruled unconstitutional, school funding formulas, zoning boundaries and enrollment policies continue to reflect the same racial and socioeconomic divisions created by redlining and housing discrimination.
Local property taxes remain the primary driver of school funding in many states. A 2019 study by the Library Research Service found that predominantly white school districts receive $23 billion more annually than predominantly nonwhite districts, despite serving the same number of students. This inequitable distribution affects access to AP courses, certified teachers, updated facilities, technology and extracurricular programming — all of which directly influence student achievement and opportunity.
Redlining and gentrification continue to shape educational access by reinforcing racial and economic segregation through school zoning and funding policies. As formerly redlined neighborhoods — once cut off from financial services like mortgages and insurance — become gentrified, longtime residents are often pushed out, while newer, wealthier families gain access to better-funded schools, further deepening the opportunity gap.
This reflects a pattern where housing and education policies work in tandem to exclude, displace and deny. And if that weren’t enough, I’m now navigating this very system as a parent.
Generational Déjà Vu
My son, Dean, is 5 years old. He’s empathetic, curious and the kind of kid who regularly outsmarts adults.
In December 2024, I applied to 12 schools in NYC for kindergarten, including eight gifted and talented programs, some of which were not even in our ZIP code. He didn’t get into a single one. I was devastated, but more than that, I was exhausted. I spent nights in front of my laptop, cross-referencing school ratings and pouring over New York City Public Schools data. When I reviewed the data, I noticed a glaring pattern: The best-rated schools in Brooklyn with strong state test scores, robust programming and rave parent reviews were clustered in neighborhoods with high property values, PTAs that fundraise like Fortune 500s, lush parks and Trader Joe’s within walking distance.
Meanwhile, the schools in my zone — the ones we were assigned to — have lower ratings, higher suspension rates, under-resourced classrooms and a student body that looks just like us. Black and Latinx. Working-class. Excluded.
Suddenly, it hit me: This wasn’t just happening to my son. I’ve lived it: Once, as a child who was pushed out. Another time, as an educator pushing through. Again, as a mother trying to push in. And now, as a leader working to disrupt.
This was the generational pattern, looping again like a broken record that I can’t seem to stop.
The Neighborhood School Mirage
They often say that a neighborhood builds community. Sure. But neighborhood school policies, which tie school enrollment to residential addresses, can also reinforce racial and class-based segregation.
So what can we do? We stop pretending ZIP codes are just numbers. They’re policies, they’re history and they’re hurting kids. Let’s start the work to fully implement Weighted Student Funding (WSF); it's a policy that says, “Maybe kids with greater needs should receive more resources, not less.” Additionally, let’s redraw zoning maps with equity as a core value, increase transparency in school resource allocation, invest in facilities in historically underserved neighborhoods and make open enrollment accessible, in theory and practice.
These ideas may not solve every issue, but we need to stop pretending that every kid starts the race at the same line. And maybe, we stop blaming 5-year-olds for failing to “test into” opportunities when the odds were stacked from the moment they were born and carried into their new ZIP code.
Redlining was supposed to be a thing of the past. But like the ghost in every horror movie, its shadow still lingers in school zoning policies. Gentrification adds a new layer: the displacement of longtime residents and the erasure of culture. The cruel irony? These same families are blamed for attending “failing schools” in “dangerous neighborhoods,” when it’s the system that designed both the narrative and the conditions.
A ZIP code should never determine a child’s destiny. But it does. And until it doesn’t, I’ll keep teaching, mothering, writing, and shouting — because this isn’t just policy. This is personal. These are our lives and the futures of our children.
