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Earnings, or the lack thereof, have much to do with the exodus. During the 1970s, while salaries in other fields soared, teachers' pay fell 15% in real dollars. In some states starting salaries remain as low as $13,000. In Mississippi social-studies teacher Jewelie Brown makes only $22,200 after 31 years in the classroom. Californian Ken Capie does better: $41,000 after 30 years, but that is still $3,000 less than his 25-year-old son's starting salary as an engineer.
Belatedly, many districts are rushing to fatten teachers' paychecks. Since 1980 the average teacher's salary has risen 61.7%, from $17,364 to $28,085. The improvement does not dazzle many teachers, who say the increase has yet to make up the losses of the past. But some districts are finding that better pay is a magnet for fresh teaching talent. Since last summer, when it approved a three-year contract providing for salaries of up to $64,000, Dade County, Fla., has received nine applications for every teaching vacancy. "We really have the pick of the crop," exults assistant superintendent Gerald Dreyfuss.
In addition to raising pay, some districts are experimenting with career ladders that allow teachers the opportunity to move up in status without having to abandon the classroom for administrative posts. Others have created "mentor" programs, which help novice teachers by pairing them with talented and experienced ones. Some wealthier schools provide workout centers and time off for stressed-out teachers. New Trier Township High School in suburban Chicago has a wellness program that allows faculty members to exercise on school time, receive personal and career counseling and even reduce their teaching loads without penalty. But such tender loving care is rare. "I don't think burnout is caused by the children," says Tracy Bridgers, a math teacher at Alexander Graham Junior High in Charlotte, N.C. "Usually it is the administration. No one strokes you enough."
At 9:30 a.m. Lillie Rayborn, 43, is already damp with sweat, trying to keep up with her rambunctious first-graders at Tunica's Rosa Fort Elementary School. "All right," she says firmly. "Yesterday we learned the letter l. Today we will learn the letter d." She hands out construction paper "bones." If the word on the "bone" begins with d, the child gets to "feed the dog" -- a large construction-paper hound with a hole for a mouth. The kids love it.
Off to one side are about ten "Chapter 1" children -- kids who need special attention. Because the district usually requires that everyone complete first grade before being evaluated as learning disabled, kids who have serious problems often limp through the first two years of school behind their more advanced peers.
Eric, for example, has learned to draw a capital E, but cannot write his own name. He is far from the worst case that Rayborn has seen. Once, a child with Down syndrome was enrolled in her class. He was still in diapers and required frequent changing. "I had to run out and buy Pampers," she recalls. "He had never been disciplined. He acted like an animal in the zoo."