Get to know Daniel Steven Kleinman

Local School Councils are one of Chicago’s quiet revolutions. Born from a belief that democracy should live not only in city hall but in every classroom, every hallway, every lunchroom, LSCs placed real authority in the hands of parents, educators, students, and community members. They recognized a simple truth: schools do not exist apart from their neighborhoods — they rise and fall with them. For decades, LSCs have been the connective tissue between policy and people, between vision and daily life, between aspiration and accountability. They remain one of the most powerful examples of participatory democracy in American public education.

For Daniel Steven Kleinman, this work has never been abstract. For five years, he served on Local School Councils in some of Chicago’s most dynamic and diverse school communities — from the magnet halls of Disney Elementary to the neighborhood strength and complexity of Senn High School. In those rooms, around those tables, he witnessed both the fragility and resilience of public education. Especially during the hardest months of COVID, when decisions carried extraordinary weight, he saw how local leadership, rooted in trust and shared responsibility, could guide schools through fear, uncertainty, and isolation with compassion and clarity.

It was through LSC service that Daniel learned the true power of local action. When his council fought to bring a social worker into the school, it was not a line item — it was a lifeline. It meant recognizing trauma, mental health, housing instability, and family stress as educational realities, not side issues. It meant seeing children fully, not narrowly. That experience transformed his understanding of what schools must be: anchors of their neighborhoods, centers of care, stability, and hope, in every zip code, without exception.

This same philosophy drove Daniel to form block clubs — small, powerful engines of neighborhood connection and shared responsibility. His practical, accessible “how-to” guides for building block clubs have been downloaded thousands of times nationwide, empowering residents to reclaim their streets, their safety, and their sense of belonging. The work is simple, but never small: knock on doors, build trust, create systems, share leadership. It is the same blueprint that makes LSCs thrive — service for the team to serve, for neighbors to serve one another, for institutions to serve the people they exist for.

CPS students need wraparound services — academic, emotional, social, and material — because learning does not stop at the school door. Hunger, housing insecurity, mental health struggles, and community violence all walk into the classroom every morning alongside our children. Schools must be equipped not just to teach, but to support, stabilize, and uplift. Even if we understood this truth a hundred years ago, now is the moment to fully act on it, to scale it, to fund it, and to defend it.

Daniel knows this not only as an advocate, but as a student who lived it. His own high school provided wraparound services, and he knows firsthand that they work. They change trajectories. They open futures. They save lives. CPS students deserve the same — nothing less. Equity is not a slogan; it is a commitment measured in counselors hired, social workers funded, meals served, mentors trained, and safe spaces sustained.

LSCs form the backbone of this vision. They are where leadership meets lived experience, where policy meets practice, where accountability meets care. But they cannot stand alone. They require strong central support, aligned district leadership, and sustained public investment. Both are needed — empowered local councils and a responsive, collaborative CPS — working together in service of students, families, educators, and communities.

This is service for the team to serve — a shared labor of hope, discipline, and love. It is democracy in motion, community in action, and education as a collective promise.

It is now a necessary shared goal to fix the damage that was created before.

Can’t wait, looking forward.

Her birthday just passed. Obviously, I got her the most expensive thing I could afford.  She’s worth it.  And It amazes me still to this day. Read Pew Research on the subject.  Of marriages in the US, about 20% are interracial.  Most ever. But only 10% of those are specifically White Husband, Black Wife, as we are.   I can say two things on this matter. 

Thing the first.  I remember meeting her on our first date.  So funny.  I was so nervous to meet her that when I saw her waiting for me I almost bailed.  As it was, we instead walked down to a coffee shop and talked until they closed.  They gave us the left over donuts.  I cannot imagine life without her.  So.

Thing the Second. I don’t get it.  Some people truly truly despise us.  We’ve been yelled at, pointed fingers at, tossed profanities at, and even had ice thrown at us. Worth it.  And yet, our relationship is 10% of 20%.   I treasure it. She teaches me so much everyday about what it’s like being Black American.  But more astounding than our differences is our similarities.  We both love to try new foods. We both love to read.  We both like video games.   We both like walking for miles, visiting other neighborhoods. 

I remember on tinder (Yep! We met on Tinder back when it was new!) I saw her profile and swiped for her and then closed the app.   Either she matched, or I was going to give up.  Her. Or no one.  2 days later, we matched.   Now We are approaching 10 years since. 

So Damn the statistics.   There are values that numbers don’t show.   Like, the time I was helping Shay’s family move.  

As we were standing together in front of the house, cops showed up.  They literally just saw us all in a group in front of a house (we had wrapped up moving and were saying our goodbyes) and stopped to question us. Simply for being a large group in front of a house. As Shay recalls: “They didn’t leave until you vouched for us saying we were moving someone into the house.” 

I found this Enraging.  And that’s the greatest lesson through my relationship.  

Sh*t is Enraging. Truly enraging. We either accept that, or we work to amend it. 

My friend,

It’s almost here. As I write this, people I trust—people who know both my heart and my work—have been encouraging me to take the plunge back into electoral politics. I don’t take that lightly. I never have. Because this has never been about ambition for its own sake. It’s about responsibility.

I believe—deeply—in the transformative power of schools. Schools are not just buildings. They are anchors in their neighborhoods. They are stabilizers. They are launchpads. When schools are strong, they don’t just educate students; they shape futures, whether that future leads to college, to the trades, or directly into the workforce with dignity and purpose.

My five years of service on Local School Councils—at Disney Magnet Elementary and Nicholas Senn High School—taught me what CPS truly needs most: wraparound services that meet students where they are. And my own life confirms that truth. By the time I in high school at OPRF (Oak Park River Forest) I was in dire need of support.  I only made it through to graduation because the right supports were there. I carry that with me every day. I hope to aid—constantly—a CPS where every student has access to the same quality resources, care, and belief that I was fortunate enough to receive, in every zip code and in every neighborhood of this great city.  I will work toward coalition in my home district is 2B,

And now, this is our moment.

CPS needs us. It needs advocates who don’t just talk, but who have shown up and delivered. I’ve helped secure funding for programs that create pathways for neighborhood residents to become teachers (Grow Your Own Teachers). I’ve helped push progressive policies—like hiring additional social workers (My passing vote on LSC)—because student success doesn’t begin nor end in the classroom.

So I’m asking you: stand with me.

Please help. We can do this—but only if together.   Give what you can.  Some will come to volunteer to contact voters for an hour and others help by contributing $250.  There are many ways to get involved.

Sign up:

https://www.votefordanielkleinman.com/kick-off_day_of_action-

Give and join:

https://www.votefordanielkleinman.com

https://www.votefordanielkleinman.com/donate

I am looking forward, with thanks,

Daniel

We live in an age of easy courage. It takes no real bravery to join a mob online, to raise a torch in a crowd, to drape yourself in a flag and shout into the night. These gestures are cheap. The real cost comes later, when the smoke clears and we realize that we haven’t moved one step closer to a better world—only deeper into our own divisions.

The truth is, the torches we carry burn brightest when they illuminate our own failings. The flags we wave most proudly lose all meaning when they become weapons, sharpened edges of identity meant to wound rather than bind. What would genuine courage look like in this moment? Not more shouting, not more fighting. It would be the harder act of setting the torch down, of keeping the flag raised high but vowing never again to use it to harm.

That kind of bravery requires us to pick a side, yes—but to understand that the side we must truly battle is not the stranger across the line. It is the stranger in the mirror. The adversary is not the neighbor who votes differently, worships differently, or looks differently. The adversary is our own refusal to grow. The adversary is our addiction to anger, to certainty, to the easy out of blame.

We contain the key to this locked door. It is us, not them, who must unlock it. That is the paradox of bravery in our time: the fight is within, and the battlefield is patience, empathy, and humility. To win is not to conquer but to change, and to change not alone but together.

Even a small step matters. Even a little growth makes space for peace. Real bravery is not in taking up arms, or hashtags, or angry slogans. Real bravery is in the quiet work of unlearning hatred, of refusing to dehumanize, of daring to hope that our collective future can be brighter than our fractured present.

We can still wave our flags, but let them be signals of unity rather than war banners. We can still gather in the streets, but let it be to build rather than to burn. That is what courage would mean right now—not the courage to fight each other, but the courage to change ourselves.

*trigger* There was a sui***de down the block.  It impacted me in an unexpected way.  Sometimes the fight can be just too hard for a fellow warrior.  Sometimes they get tiered.  Sometimes, the fight just ends.  We all know it.  I cheer for all of our individual progress.  Let’s please keep it going. You are strong enough and equipped well enough to move forward.

I was told to write my thoughts:

I’m proud to be someone living with a mental health disorder. That may sound strange at first, but it’s not about celebrating the struggle—it’s about owning the truth. Too many people keep their disorders hidden in the shadows, silenced by shame or fear of judgment. But the reality is, when we speak up, we create space for others to step forward too. My statement here is simple: if you’re living with a mental health disorder, you are not alone, and your life is not defined by a diagnosis.

Wounds from battle can cut deep. The symptoms don’t arrive politely, they crash in—the way they can shake your foundation. They are devastating, no question about it. And yet, We’re still here. That matters. Survival, in itself, is a great act of defiance. It means that despite the storms, despite the weight pressing down, we continue to exist, to move, to try. Sometimes, that is the victory we need.

The risks are real. Suicide rates among certain groups are painfully high. This isn’t an abstract statistic—it’s a reflection of lives lost, of struggles that felt unbearable.   Each case carries its own unique shape and its own battles. No two people wear a disorder the same way, but the dangers remain ever-present, and awareness is part of that survival.

But let’s be clear: I call myself a member of the Mental Health Community . We have dreams, we set goals, and we stretch toward them with all the hope and effort we can muster. Sometimes those goals slip out of reach. That’s human life. Every person knows the sting of aiming high and falling short.

We are still here, still trying, still crafting ourselves, still not giving up.  Still in the fight.

And no matter where in the struggle you lie, being human is the most you can ask for, for that is all any of us truly are.

Labor Day is more than a holiday marked by backyard barbecues and end-of-summer sales. In Chicago, it carries the weight of history—the kind written in blood, sacrifice, and victory. Our city is where workers fought on the frontlines of the labor movement, demanding the eight-hour workday and dignity for every man and woman who labored in the factories, rail yards, and stockyards. Chicago has always been a labor town, and Labor Day is a reminder of how hard those fights were—and how much we owe to those who came before.

Some paid the ultimate price for what they believed in. The Haymarket Affair of 1886 showed the world that Chicago workers would not back down, even in the face of police bullets and public scorn. Union leaders and ordinary people stood shoulder to shoulder, believing that their lives were worth more than endless hours of toil. For many, those days ended in imprisonment or death. But the spark they lit could not be extinguished—it spread across the nation and into law, forever changing what it means to work in America.

Out of that sacrifice came victories that we now take for granted. The eight-hour day. The weekend. Workplace protections. The right to organize and to bargain collectively. Chicago’s labor struggles built the framework for modern American life, where a job is not supposed to be a life sentence but a path toward stability, fairness, and opportunity. That is the true inheritance of Labor Day, a legacy written not in textbooks, but in the lives of working families.

Today, every benefit we enjoy—from overtime pay to safety regulations—stands on the shoulders of those who would not be silenced. Their voices echo in the chants of striking teachers, hospital workers, and service employees today. Labor Day is not only about honoring the past—it’s about carrying that spirit into the fights of the present, knowing that the gains of one generation must be defended by the next.

Chicago is a labor town. It always has been. And when we step into the streets to march, we’re not just honoring history—we are writing the next chapter of it.

Dear Friends,

I fought for nearly a decade for our school board to become elected so that stakeholders and community members could be on it.

I worked with an amazing grass roots team to collect more than 2,100 signatures for my campaign for that office. 

Ultimately, our grassroots effort cannot keep up with my opponents’ challenges. 

The hearings, already stretching into their second month,  have sapped out my campaign’s time and money and we no longer have the resources needed to respond to all of the objections remaining. 

The Tribune asked me, “Did you challenge anyone?”

No. I did not Challenge any one because I believe in ballot access.

I am proud of the work that we did, and deep down, I am fully confident that we had the support to win it.  We had a winning message.  One that was city wide but LSC based.   Voters were responding. 

But it became a battle of lawyers, not voters, and we simply could not financially keep up. 

I know we would have made a difference on the Board.  My experience on Local School Councils, my experience growing up a student with a mental health disability, and my commitment to public education as organizer and lobbyist in Springfield where I helped win early funding for the Grow Your Own teachers program, would have contributed a great deal.

Ultimately, our grassroots organization  no longer has the resources to keep up with the objectors.  

I am therefore suspending my campaign for Chicago’s School Board 2024.

This is not the end. This is not a good bye.  This is a, we will never stop fighting, because we will never forget why:

We need to save Chicago.

Over the next few years, I will remain dedicated to continue my advocacy for Chicago Public Schools at the local level and for to participate in the block clubs of my neighborhood.

You have all meant so much to me. 

Thank you.  Thank you all sincerely.

And I continue to be Looking Forward. 

Daniel

Daniel Steven Kleinman

https://www.votefordanielkleinman.com

Amazing. I cannot thank you enough. 

Because of you, our people powered campaign pushed through the barriers of Chicago politics.