I was an earnest kindergarten mom when my son first entered public school, so I was an easy target when the volunteer signup sheet circulated at back-to-school night. Room parent? No problem! Coraller of fellow parents? Happy to! It wasn’t much of a challenge, truth be told. We had an endless supply of candy-corn-shaped Rice Krispie treats for the Halloween party, made-at-home handprint cards for the holiday teacher gift basket, and colorful donated picture books for quiet time.

We live in Fairfax County, Virginia, one of the largest and wealthiest districts in the country. School spending per capita is higher here than in many places, and also, more parents have resources to spare for everything from chaperoning school parties to shelling out for supplies-stocked monogrammed backpacks.

That kindergartener of mine is now a senior, and this resource-flow pattern has not waned in the last 13 years. That’s not to say our spaces are perfect: Could our schools use better HVAC and WiFi systems? Sure. My kids will tell you the institutional concrete walls are ugly and uninviting, the toilets don’t flush well, and the food is subpar.

But my assumption for years has been that all Fairfax schools are relatively well-resourced, and teachers’ basic needs are met. Then I became a teacher myself.

My school and the school my children attend are 8 miles apart. Some days I feel like that distance might as well be 1,000 miles

I am a career switcher, currently in my fourth year at a Title I school, also in Fairfax County. My school and the school my children attend are eight miles apart. Some days I feel like that distance might as well be 1,000 miles.

I noticed the discrepancies almost immediately: That first year, I recall racing into the closest teacher workroom during a sliver of time I had to use the restroom and print extra copies of an activity, only to find that the printer was broken (with a cryptic handwritten sign attached indicating that the front office knew of its demise). Also, no paper. “We’ve used up our monthly supply,” someone muttered. Also, another handwritten sign on the bathroom door: “Out of order. Sry.”

Principals have some discretion when it comes to the distribution of funds. I also have learned that strong PTAs and booster programs are part of what make schools sing. Strong PTAs have members who are able to spend time volunteering in schools, which means they notice malfunctioning printers and empty paper boxes. Strong PTAs have multiple thousands of dollars in member fees to put toward new computers. Strong PTAs’ members respond to rallying cries when, during teacher appreciation week, they are asked to donate catered smorgasbords for the staff for multiple meals. That’s the kind of offering that boosts morale, makes good teachers want to stay, and sends a message to the students: Our community loves our teachers.

The problem, of course, is that resources are just one reflection of love. My students’ parents love their children. They appreciate our staff. Many of them work multiple jobs. Many of them are recent immigrants and, therefore, utterly overwhelmed. Many of them are struggling to put food on the table. In our current political climate, many of them worry about being deported, whether they are here legally or not.

So, they demonstrate their appreciation in ways that don’t show up on spreadsheets. They knit baby blankets for expectant teachers. They cook and pack extra pupusas in their children’s lunch bags, when they hear a teacher loves them. They offer hugs at back-to-school night, while their children stand by and translate their whispered words: “She says thank you for teaching me, Miss.”

Still, they simply can’t comprise the kind of volunteer machine that my children experience at their school every day. The same volunteer greets my son every morning when he’s tardy (which is, sigh, often). The same volunteer takes my daughter’s measurements every year for theatre productions and stitches together all kinds of costume magic. They see all the cool stuff in the building and all the kinks.

My children and their peers go on multiple field trips every year …. My students do not: Some have never seen the white marble wonders of Washington, D.C., despite living less than five miles from them

At my school, on the other hand, if the elevator is broken and a disabled parent isn’t in the space to see it, it stays broken longer. If the single water fountain outside the gym offers a weak stream of lukewarm water and no Stanley-toting parent needing a refill is there to notice, it stays weak and lukewarm.

My students do not come to school with supplies. Most every pencil, whiteboard marker, and piece of lined paper has come from me or from friends. Last year, our team asked the school for one composition book for the year for each of the students in one grade so that they could practice taking notes: That request wasn’t approved until late October. By that point, most of us had bought the supplies ourselves or asked for donations from friends and family.

Our principal told a school counselor that he hoped the microphone would malfunction at the annual spelling bee competition because he knew the district’s school board member would be in the audience. He wanted to drive home the point that the school needs new technology and thought a public embarrassment was his only recourse.

When my computer charger disappeared one day, a fellow in our IT office told me I’d have to buy my replacement from a third-party vendor: The school was out of chargers, and there were no plans to order more. This was three weeks into the school year.

My children and their peers go on multiple field trips every year: Some school clubs go on international adventures. My students do not: Some have never seen the white marble wonders of Washington, D.C., despite living less than five miles from them. Field trips, it turns out, are quite expensive. My children and their peers have access to elaborate extras for their science fair exhibits. My students make marvelously creative three-dimensional projects as well, but they have access only to cardboard recyclables I collect throughout the year and store in my garage.

The weight of these woes gets to people: We have lost whole departments of teachers every year I’ve been on staff. One former student was in the building recently and stopped to visit a colleague of mine: He told her that she was the only teacher of his who still worked there. Students notice when their teachers leave en masse. Students notice when those teachers leave for schools just a few miles away, schools with glossy extras, like the one my own children attend. It’s no secret that some public schools are better off than others. But the extent of the disparities within the same “affluent” school district? That has surprised and troubled me. A public system that actually relies on outside support for excellence is not equitable, and dismantling the Department of Education — which provides much-needed federal financial assistance to Title I schools — will likely make things more inequitable. If schools that are eight miles apart from one another offer such vastly different experiences, I have to wonder whether we are perpetuating the cycles of poverty and class division that education ultimately is meant to help end.

Nan Field is the pseudonym of a teacher at a school in Fairfax County, Va.