The Silent Cuts: When Budget Slashes Speak Volumes
There’s a quiet crisis brewing in Multnomah County, and it’s not just about numbers on a spreadsheet. It’s about the lives of students who rely on programs that, quite literally, give them a voice. The proposed closure of nine SUN School after-school sites, including one serving deaf and hard-of-hearing students, is more than a budget cut—it’s a statement about our priorities as a society.
What’s at Stake? More Than Just After-School Snacks
On the surface, the SUN School program seems like a straightforward offering: after-school activities, meals, and social services. But dig deeper, and you’ll find it’s a lifeline for marginalized communities. Take Creston Elementary’s Columbia Regional Inclusive Services program, for example. This isn’t just a place where kids go after school; it’s a hub of inclusion, support, and connection for students who are deaf or hard of hearing.
Personally, I think what makes this particularly fascinating is how these programs are often framed as optional or supplementary. But for many families, they’re essential. They bridge gaps in education, provide safe spaces, and foster a sense of belonging. Cutting them isn’t just trimming fat—it’s cutting into the muscle of community support.
The Numbers Game: Who Decides What’s Worth Saving?
The county’s rationale for these cuts is rooted in data: demographic and poverty metrics. But here’s where it gets tricky. Data can tell you what to cut, but it doesn’t always capture why something matters. The $1.2 million saved by closing these sites might look like a win on paper, but what’s the long-term cost?
From my perspective, this raises a deeper question: Are we using data to make decisions, or are we using it to justify them? The fact that these cuts are being proposed while the county grapples with an $11 million shortfall suggests the latter. It’s easier to point to numbers than to confront the human impact of those decisions.
The Bigger Picture: A Trend We Can’t Ignore
Multnomah County isn’t alone in this. Across the country, budget shortfalls are forcing tough choices, and programs serving vulnerable populations are often the first on the chopping block. What many people don’t realize is that these cuts aren’t just about money—they’re about values. When we prioritize balancing budgets over supporting marginalized communities, we’re sending a clear message about who and what we value as a society.
One thing that immediately stands out is the timing. Schools like Portland Public are already facing their own $50 million budget gap. It’s a perfect storm of underfunding, and programs like SUN are caught in the crossfire. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just a local issue—it’s a symptom of a broader systemic failure to invest in education and social services.
The Human Cost: What We Stand to Lose
Let’s talk about the kids. For students at Creston Elementary, the SUN program isn’t just an after-school activity—it’s a lifeline. It’s where they learn, play, and connect with peers who understand their experiences. Closing this site would be more than an inconvenience; it would be a blow to their sense of belonging and inclusion.
A detail that I find especially interesting is the role of these programs in fostering equity. Will Fernandez, director of racial equity and social justice for Portland Public Schools, put it perfectly: ‘For many of our communities, SUN is not an add-on, it’s a core part of how students are supported.’ What this really suggests is that cutting these programs isn’t just a financial decision—it’s a moral one.
Looking Ahead: What’s Next?
The final vote on the budget isn’t until June, so there’s still time for public input to make a difference. But even if these cuts are avoided, the underlying issue remains: How do we fund the programs that matter most? In my opinion, it’s not enough to just react to budget shortfalls. We need a fundamental shift in how we prioritize and fund social services.
What this situation really highlights is the fragility of programs that serve marginalized communities. They’re often the first to go when budgets get tight, and that’s a problem. If we’re serious about equity and inclusion, we need to stop treating these programs as expendable.
Final Thoughts: The Silence Speaks Volumes
As someone who’s watched these debates play out time and again, I can’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu. Budget cuts are inevitable, but the choices we make reveal our priorities. Closing a program that serves deaf and hard-of-hearing students isn’t just a financial decision—it’s a statement about who we are as a community.
What makes this particularly heartbreaking is the silence. These are students who already face barriers to communication and inclusion, and now they’re at risk of losing one of their few safe spaces. If we let these cuts go through, we’re not just saving money—we’re silencing voices that deserve to be heard.
So, as we watch this debate unfold, let’s remember what’s really at stake. It’s not just about balancing a budget—it’s about balancing our values. And in that equation, some things are simply too important to cut.
