Loud shrieks emanated through the worn walls of the curious red brick building on Elm Street in Albany, New York's South End neighborhood. The little girl gazed up at the crooked sign on the fire escape, swaying in the wind. "The Free School" the sign stated proudly, towering above her head. She struggled to pull open the doors. The stairs made clicking sounds as she tripped over herself, stuffed animal in tow. When she reached the top of the stairs she cautiously shuffled through the door. The girl was welcomed by her new classmates who were busy chasing each other with arms flailing above their heads like flags, and the smell of crayons and dirt permeating the room.  She hugged her stuffed dog close to her chest, eyes wide with astonishment. There was a light tap on her shoulder.  When she turned around, she was greeted by a lady with a big smile. "What's your name?" the woman asked kindly.  The girl looked down at her light-up shoes and mumbled, "Harmony."  She didn't like to talk to people much. When the lady left, she sat in the corner and buried her head in a book.  She stayed in the corner most of that first day and spoke sparingly.

Don't get me wrong: I love Big Bird as much as the next guy. But when people start talking about how Sesame Street is just as effective at closing the achievement gap as preschool, I start to worry that we're becoming enamored with a seductively simple characterization of a deeply complex problem.

To wit: this article, in which we are told the "new findings offer comforting news for parents who put their children in front of public TV every day." Or this radio story, in which the reporter claims that the show's heavy dosage of reading and math can yield long-term academic benefits that "close the achievement gap."