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By Mrs. Valerie Franck
Math Teacher

What is the soul of Georgetown Prep? It is a question worth sitting with and one that Georgetown Prep math teacher and mother of four Valerie Franck was asked to respond to as part of this past winter's Board of Trustees retreat. Selected to represent the faculty in presenting her reflections directly to the Board, Mrs. Franck offered something quietly profound: not a sweeping institutional statement, but a deeply personal one. We are grateful for her willingness to share it here.

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When I was asked to reflect on the question, “What is the soul of Georgetown Prep?” my first instinct was to respond with something lofty, something about tradition, or faith, or leadership. Certainly, all of those are part of who we are. But when I sat with the question a little longer, the response that kept coming back to me was much simpler. The soul of our school is family.

So often we use the word brotherhood to describe our community. Brotherhood suggests loyalty, shared experience, accountability, pride. But if we look closely at what brotherhood really evokes, it is something even deeper. Brotherhood is family. And what sets Georgetown Prep apart from so many other schools is that this sense of family extends far beyond student to student. It permeates faculty, staff, alumni, and every member of this community.

I say this with some perspective. For the first fifteen years of my career, I taught in large public schools, and I am grateful for that experience. I learned a great deal about instruction, classroom management and curriculum. I had wonderful colleagues and taught some fantastic students. But the culture was different. In a large public school, systems have to function at scale. Efficiency becomes essential. Roles become narrowly defined. A teacher teaches. A counselor counsels. A coach coaches. There is a kind of necessary compartmentalization that allows a large institution to run.

Here, the experience is different. I am “only” a teacher. I am not a dorm parent. I am not a coach. I do not carry administrative responsibilities. On paper, my role is limited to the classroom. And yet, because of the culture and ethos of our school, I am invited, and at times even required, to be far more than simply a teacher. This community does not confine us to job descriptions; it calls us into relationship. It has allowed me to bring my mother’s heart into my classroom, to care not only about performance, but also about the person; not only about grades, but about growth; not only about achievement, but about well-being. 

When I say I bring my mother’s heart into my classroom, I don’t mean that I lower standards or blur professional boundaries. I mean that I approach my students with the same holistic concern that a mother brings to her own child. A mother does not separate academics from emotional well-being nor discipline from love. She does not say, “Today I will only care about your performance.” She cares about the whole child: his mind, his heart, his body, his spirit. Because of the culture here, I am able to strive for that same wholeness.

Yes, my primary responsibility is academics. I want my students to think critically, to persevere through challenging material, to master statistical reasoning, to solve problems strategically, to analyze deeply. I want them to perform at the highest level they are capable of. But I have learned that even my ability to help them perform academically is inseparable from my ability to know them as human beings. This is where the soul of family becomes visible.

Every day before each class, I stand outside my classroom door and greet my students individually as they walk in. On the surface, this might seem like a small ritual, but these are some of the most important moments of my day. In those few seconds, I get a glimpse of what each is bringing with him. Did he bomb a test? Did he have a bad game? Did something happen at home? Or is he walking in proud because he just had his best game of the season?

These moments tell me how to teach him and how to reach him that day. Sometimes I need to push harder. Sometimes I need to extend grace. Sometimes I need to check in privately after class. And sometimes I don’t get it right.

This practice only works in a culture where relationships are valued. In a school that sees students as numbers, as test scores, or as data points, the ritual is ineffective. At Prep, it feels essential.

The same is true when I attend sporting events and student performances. I try to show up as often as I can to games, concerts and plays. I don’t show up because it is required nor because it is in my job description. I show up because when a student looks up into the stands and sees a teacher there, it communicates something powerful: what matters to you matters to me.

That is what family does. Family shows up. Family cheers. Family stands beside you when you succeed and when you fall short.

And what I have found is that when students know they are seen beyond the classroom, something changes inside the classroom. They take risks more freely. They ask questions more honestly. They accept correction more openly. They trust that high expectations come from a place of belief in their potential.

Another visible expression of this soul is how we model priorities. I prioritize attending optional weekly Mass not because it is mandatory or because someone is tracking attendance. A big part of why I attend mass on Tuesdays week after week, regardless of what letter test day it is or how many papers I have sitting on my desk waiting to be graded is because I want our students to see that it is good to orient our lives toward something larger than grades, athletics, or college admissions. When students see faculty choosing to be there, choosing to pray, to reflect, to pause it normalizes an approach to life that incorporates time for stillness and gratitude, grounded in faith and an awareness of God’s presence and desire to be in relation with each one of us.

In family life, faith is often transmitted not through lectures but through witness. A child sees a parent kneel, hears a prayer before dinner. A child notices what is prioritized. In the same way, the spiritual culture of our school is transmitted through lived example.

Our retreat program is another profound expression of the deep sense of family that defines our school. Retreats create space for vulnerability that rarely exists in everyday life. They allow students to share struggles, doubts, fears, and hopes. They allow faculty to step out of the purely academic role and into accompaniment. 

In these moments, the language of brotherhood becomes tangible. Students hear each other’s stories and see that they are not alone in their struggles. Students begin to recognize strength in honesty and to understand that leadership includes compassion.

As a faculty member, being part of that process is one of the greatest privileges of my career. It deepens my understanding of the students I teach. It reminds me that formation is always bigger than instruction.

And that is perhaps the clearest way to articulate the soul of our school: We are not merely an academic institution, we are a formative community. We care deeply about intellectual excellence, we value college placement, we celebrate athletic and artistic achievements. But beneath all of that is something quieter and more powerful, a shared commitment to forming young men who know they are loved, who know they belong, and who know they are called to become more fully themselves.

Family does not mean perfection. In families, there is conflict, difficult conversations, accountability and high expectations. But in healthy families, correction is rooted in love. Expectations are grounded in belief. And belonging is not conditional.

That is what I see here at Prep everyday. I see colleagues who know their students deeply––not just the top students, not just the loudest students. I see coaches who mentor beyond the field. I see alumni who return not simply out of nostalgia, but also out of gratitude.

The soul of a school is not found in its buildings, though ours are beautiful. It is not found in the end of season sports records, though they matter. It is not even found solely in its traditions, though they anchor us. The soul of a school is found in how people treat one another when no one is watching. It is found in the quiet check-ins, in the teacher who stays after class, in the coach who supports a student to improve in the classroom, in the student who sits with a peer who is struggling. 

The soul of our school is found in love expressed through action. Families do not merely speak love; they live it. That spirit of family is the very heart of our school.