At the time, I was teaching at a continuation high school with outdated computers and not nearly enough of them to go around. But the moment I saw that smart board, I knew it could change how my students experienced learning. It was interactive, engaging and felt like a glimpse of what school should be.
So I asked my administrator if we could get one. I was told there wasn’t money in the budget. A week later, my assistant principal told me, “If you want one, write a grant.” I had never written a grant before. I was nervous and honestly, a little hesitant. I didn’t want to get my hopes up if it didn’t happen. Still, I wrote it anyway.
About a month later, I got called into the assistant principal’s office and told it was funded. I felt elated and empowered just as much.
After I explained to my colleague how I had found resources for my students, she said plainly, “That’s advocacy.” Until that moment, I had assumed advocacy belonged to policy spaces, public statements or formal leadership roles. I didn’t realize it was already happening in the daily decisions I was making inside my own classroom.
I learned quickly that a “no” in education rarely means “never.” More often, it means “not yet,” “we don’t understand the vision,” “we don’t have the budget,” or “it’s not a priority right now.” Understanding that distinction changed everything for me.
Over time, I recognized a pattern. Advocacy, I came to understand, is not random. It follows a disciplined process: identify a need, do the research, listen more than you speak, build a team around a shared commitment, and implement the best available solution together.
That same mindset shaped how I brought artificial intelligence into my classroom. While much of the conversation around AI focuses on efficiency or automation, I saw a different potential. I saw a tool that could help me reflect more intentionally, build student confidence and strengthen my students’ sense of identity as learners.
I used AI as a thinking partner: to clarify my reasoning, analyze student mistakes and articulate student understanding in new ways.
When I was later invited to speak about AI in education with preservice teachers, I didn’t lead with the technology. I told stories. I wanted educators and researchers to understand that AI in education is a lived experience, not just a theoretical one. That invitation didn’t stem from a single bold action. It came from years of consistent, quiet engagement, showing up, building relationships and contributing before asking for anything in return.
I used to think advocacy lived in big, visible moments. Now I understand something different. Advocacy is built in the quiet ones: the follow-up email, the extra conversation, the willingness to try again after hearing “no.” It lives in the persistence to keep showing up, even when progress feels slow or invisible.
With primary elections approaching in California and across the country, I’m reminded that advocacy also lives beyond the classroom. The decisions made at the ballot box, from local school boards to federal technology funding, shape the conditions our students learn in every day.
Few professions ask us to advocate not just for ourselves, but for the people we serve. Teachers do this every day, for students who cannot vote, who are too often unheard and who depend on adults to ensure their needs are represented.
When educators approach advocacy as a mindset rather than a moment, we stop waiting for permission and start creating possibilities. In doing so, we help shape the systems that all students deserve.
Al Rabanera is a math teacher at La Vista High School in Fullerton, Calif. He was selected into a competitive national leadership program run by Teach Plus, a nonprofit focused on empowering educators to influence education policy and practice.
