How Greg Hutchings liberated one Nashville school from districtwide dysfunction

In all the ways in which a school system can fail, Nashville's has.

Five years of falling short on test scores has brought partial state control. Last summer came an unprecedented rejiggering of the organizational food chain along with a purge of 60 principals and administrators. Mayor Karl Dean has spent the past year watching from the sidelines, waiting for the governor's green-light to bulldoze the school board and grab the crown.

Former chief Pedro Garcia arrived as a savior. When he left, the well had been so thoroughly poisoned it took a year-and-a-half to find a replacement. It's hard to attract top talent when job security is equivalent to an assembly-line worker in a Saturn plant.

These days, teachers and parents speak in cryptic metaphors. The most popular image is the rudderless ship, speeding toward a rocky shore.

But while the boat may be headed for trouble, a handful of crew have come under the direction of a promising young captain.

West End Middle School, which rests in the shaded tranquility of Elmington Park, is being heralded as a model for how a school should function within a system marred by dysfunction.

At the helm is the man most credit for its ascendance: first-time principal Greg Hutchings. He's quite possibly the most promising and ambitious educator ever seen in Nashville. And he's certainly the hardest to keep up with.

If it's Monday at 8:45 a.m., and Greg Hutchings is only just now making his way to the second floor, you best be ready to take the stairs two at a time.

The 32-year-old principal is four days away from completing the second of two heralded years at West End. Wearing a soft gray pinstripe, he attacks the steps with the ease of a former 110-meter hurdler.

"C'mon now," he says, bounding past a mural of Martin Luther King. "We've got to hurry up."

When he reaches the top, Hutchings quick-strides his way into a hall filled with students milling about and teachers doing their best to corral them. Then he proceeds to violate every rule of the man who purports to be in a hurry.

Before the first bell Hutchings has a routine: Make an appearance in every classroom.

"I want them to see me," he says, "to know I'm there."

It's not the easiest task. But it's made even harder because Hutchings can't let a single kid, teacher or parent pass without saying hello or bestowing upon them some virtue.

"This is the greatest woman you're ever going to meet," he says while introducing a parent.

"This man is like my brother," he says before hugging a science teacher.

"I want you to meet my queen," he says while holding the hand of the librarian.

Each teacher and parent responds in kind. Some add a warning for the visitor trailing their leader: "Hope you've got your roller skates on," they say with a conspiratorial grin.

Hutchings makes time for all while also maintaining a sixth sense about exactly how long each conversation should last.

A young teacher in pressed hair and cream matte pumps materializes in her doorway. She wants to know what to do with some extra textbooks.

Hutchings backs up as he's giving his answer, with the teacher matching him step for step, creating the momentary visual of a hankie-waving suitor, running down the platform as the train pulls out of the station.

Hutchings' day began at 5 a.m., as it does four days a week when he jogs before work. By the time he's back in his office, ready to take the mic for morning announcements, he's probably logged another mile.

He looks down at the schedule printed out by his secretary, also known as his "work wife." The day looks suspiciously open, with white gaps broad as his thumb staring back.

"You just watch," he says, flashing a megawatt smile. "It'll get filled."

If anyone was born to do a job, Hutchings was born to do this. After his parents divorced when he was 7, says mom Shari Thomas, a financial analyst at Freddie Mac, Greg's grandma told him that he was now the man of the house. He took the advice to heart: The next day, "the man" arrived at his second-grade classroom carrying a red nylon briefcase.

"He used to dress real conservative," says Shari. "Most kids wear jeans and sweatshirts. Greg made me buy him oxford shirts, khakis and loafers."

He got his first job at an Alexandria, Va., Chick-fil-A without saying a word. The manager was so thoroughly blown away he hired him on the spot; no 15-year-old had ever worn a tie to interview for a gig slinging waffle fries.

The prom king and student body president was a man on a mission. A "C" student bored in class, he tried to convince his advisor that he needed the challenge of the honors program to stay engaged. When she balked, he wrote a letter to his principal and circulated a petition. Seven hundred signatures later, Hutchings got his wish.

"That's Greg," says best friend Vantross Medina-White. "He'd walk into a room knowing no one and within 10 minutes they'd all know who he was. He always told me he was going to be famous one day."