Second Chances: What Restorative Justice Looks Like in the Classroom

When I was a teacher, students would come to me with all kinds of reasons for missing assignments. Sometimes it was legitimate — they had to watch younger siblings while their mom worked late, or they genuinely hadn’t understood the prompt. Other times it was "I forgot" with a shrug.

Some students approached me hoping I'd either give them a pass or a failing grade on the assignment so they could move on. Eventually I developed a practice that changed these interactions. In my mind, it was like they were trying to hand me a ball — the responsibility for their missing work — and I would refuse to take it.

Instead of lecturing or punishing them, I'd hand the “ball” back to them by asking, "What are you going to do about it?" This simple question shifted the dynamic. The problem belonged to them, not me. Most students would hesitate, then ask, "Can I turn it in tomorrow?" or "Could I come during lunch for help?" The key was that the students came up with a solution instead of just bringing me a problem.

This is one of the ways I experimented with classroom systems that balanced accountability with second chances. I intentionally built restorative principles directly into my grading policies, classroom routines, and daily interactions with students. When students know they matter, when they know they have agency, and when you believe in their potential — they usually rise to meet it.

Raising Expectations, Raising Support

Restorative justice isn't just about what happens after a student makes a mistake. It can be built right into your grading systems. I found ways to follow district rules while still extending grace and demanding accountability from my students. As educators, we expect understanding when we're late to meetings or turn in grades past deadline, so why wouldn't we extend that same grace to students dealing with real-life challenges?

The biggest change I made was eliminating the D grade from my classroom. The district required a D on the grading scale, so I made one — it was 69.9 to 70, basically one-tenth of a point. A D is basically an F+. When I gave a student a D in the past, I never saw them again. They'd scrape by with just enough to graduate high school. But a D often meant they'd have to retake the class anyway if they chose to pursue higher education.

So I restructured my scale: A (90-100%), B (80-89%), C (68-79%), F (50-67%). I lowered the C threshold by 2% and set the failing grade at 50% instead of zero. No student could get lower than 50% in my class, even if they did absolutely nothing.

Critics might say, "If a student didn't do anything, you shouldn't give them a 50%." But if a student isn’t going to do anything, then it doesn’t matter — 50% is still an F. When students and their parents saw that I was trying, they could see that if the student failed in the face of all of this support, it was on them. That was the real lesson: you have to show up. No one here is your enemy. I felt my job was to constantly let students know where they were at and then push them a little bit more. That’s difficult work — that's why I needed systems to support me.

If you're going to raise expectations, you've got to raise support. I got rid of the D, but I was there for office hours every day at lunch. Students could always redo and resubmit work. I made myself available, but I also challenged students — if you can get a D, why not get a C? Many students would say, "Well, there's no D, I guess I'll go for a C."

It was ultimately about me not making a decision for them about their futures while giving them the support they needed to succeed.

Systems That Make Growth Possible

The no D policy just the beginning. Every two weeks, I'd post grades anonymously by student ID. Students had to look up their ID and find their period. They'd come to me and say, "Hey Mr. Navarro, I turned that in." Sometimes it was my mistake — rarely, but sometimes. Most of the time it was on them, and they'd realize, "Oh, Mr. Navarro, I didn't realize I didn’t turn that in" or "I forgot I was absent for that."

Students could always redo and resubmit work. My syllabus clearly stated "Late work is not accepted” — but I knew I was going to have an individual contract with each student. One student might not know what I was doing for another. I'd tell one student privately, "Turn it in tomorrow, but keep it on the DL." For another student dealing with family issues, I might say, "Turn it in by Friday. I know your parents are out of town and you have to take care of your sister."

There was no extra credit in my class. The extra credit was to do the work. I wasn't going to assign them something and then not want them to learn it.

One of the most important systems I built was how I graded during the last five weeks of the semester. If a student had a 94% or better, they didn't have to take the multiple choice part of the final. Students knew this and worked hard all semester — that's enlightened self-interest. And during the last five weeks, everything was worth double. This made the A students work till the end because every F was now 2 Fs, and every failing student (and all those in between) knew that every A was now 2 As. It kept the A students from coasting and sitting on their hands, and the F students knew they had a chance.

The vast majority of my students turned their work in on time. I almost never got something on the last day of school — though that was fine, too. When you set up systems that show students you believe in them and you're willing to work with them, they usually don't take advantage of you. But I also made it clear — if you have a problem, you better come with a solution. I always tried to create a culture of "Yes, and..." instead of "No, because..."

Living Your Values in Real Time

The real you comes out in moments of crisis, not when you have time to think about your response. When a student walks up to you and says they didn't do their homework, what's your immediate reaction? When someone shows up late, when grades are due and a teacher hasn't turned them in yet — those moments reveal who you really are.

I tried to enter every interaction with compassion, empathy, and curiosity. If a student was acting out or failing, instead of assuming they didn't care, I'd get curious. What's really going on here? What happened to you? What's keeping you from being successful? I always told my students what I tell my own children: there's nothing you can do that can't be forgiven, but are you willing to do the work?

This required constant reflection. Every summer, I'd look at the data and adjust. I knew I couldn’t change my students, but I could change my approach. I'd ask students directly: "Was that a good assignment? What was I trying to teach you? Did you learn that?" I didn't always take their advice, but I listened and considered it.

Intention is one thing, but impact is another. You have to own both. My intention might be to love and support a student, but if the impact is that they feel criticized or dismissed, I need to adjust my approach. The enduring understanding — what students remember long after they forget my name, the room number, or the specific content — comes down to this: Do they know they matter? Do they know they're worthy? Do they know I see them as a whole person, not just their mistakes?

As educators, we're remembered not by the million good things we do, but often by that one moment when we either offered a second chance or we didn't. That's why living your values in real time matters so much.

Ready to Build Second Chances Into Your Systems?

As a coach and consultant, I help education leaders build these kinds of transformative systems. Whether you need support implementing restorative practices, developing effective grading policies, or creating school cultures where every student can thrive, let's talk about how to launch your students toward new possibilities.