At the Charles Burrell Visual and Performing Arts Campus, we are in the early, exciting stages of development. Our core mission is ambitious: providing advanced students with Work-Based Learning opportunities, showcasing our unique programs (Animation, Game Design, Film, Theater Tech, etc), and bridging the gap between our high school and the K-8 campus.
We have industry-standard facilities and a talented student body, but we needed a way to utilize them fully. What better way, I thought, than to launch a summer camp initiative?
The Vision vs. The Reality
The plan was sound. The camps would be run by instructors and their Work-Based Learning students, funded through APS Innovation Grants and camper enrollment fees. It seemed like a win-win-win situation. Parents get a break during the summer, we strengthen the community between K-8 and high school, and we create showcase pieces to attract prospective students.
I felt uniquely equipped to manage this. I work with the CU Denver summer camps, which are elaborate, expensive, and logistically complex. Compared to that, running a camp on my own campus felt straightforward especially considering the smaller scope. Having access to the school, the cafeteria, and the nurse would theoretically save us from the logistical headaches that usually delay and destroy summer programs.
I also wasn't the only staff member that felt compelled by this idea. I gathered 12 different teachers and staff members who were committed to the vision, including the pathway coordinator for my school. We met after school hours to develop timelines, design courses, survey student interest, and write grants. We really thought we ready.
Hitting the Administrative Ceiling
That is when I reached the "School Politics" phase of the project. While the grassroots support was strong, the administrative ceiling is where I found my problems time and time again.
The first blow was logistical: The high school campus would not be available due to extensive sewer maintenance scheduled for the entirety of the summer. This was a hurdle, but not the end of the world. I immediately tried to pivot towards the K-8 campus to host the program.
This is where the true friction began.
Instead of collaboration, I was met with hesitation. The administration at the substitute venue met me with no confidence and a lack of real commitment. It became a game of administrative Whac-A-Mole: each time I provided a concrete solution to their concerns regarding staffing, funding, or liability, a new reason for denial would appear.
The Lesson: Sponsorship Matters
While I was determined to work through these issues, I realized a fatal flaw in my strategy: I did not have administrative power behind my initiative.
I had passion, I had a plan, and I had a team of teachers. But I didn't have an administrative representative who could lead us through all of the red tape. As days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, we missed our critical window for sending out promotional materials.
I had to take a hard look at what we had built. While the curriculum was exciting and the problem-solving was genuine, and we had staff and students alike excited for the program, the result we were looking at was not the camp we envisioned. We had sacrificed the venue, compromised on pathway options, and missed the marketing deadline.
The Decision to Pause
We faced a choice: push forward with a compromised product, or stop.
We decided it would be best to shut it down for the year rather than run a mediocre camp that could potentially compromise its own name, or the reputation of the school. It was not something that any of us wanted to do, but I am sure it was the right call.
This experience taught me that innovation in a school system isn't just about having a great idea or a willing team. It’s about negotiating approval. It requires aligning not just with the mission, but with the gatekeepers of the space and schedule. Next time, before I design the curriculum, I’ll design the political strategy first.
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