by Steven Singer
She was smiling and
laughing, but her eyes were terrified.
Sitting in class among her
fellow middle school students, her words were all bravado. But her gestures
were wild and frightened. Tears were close.
So as the morning bell rang
and the conversation continued unabated, I held myself in check. I stopped the
loud rebuke forming in my teacher’s throat and just listened.
“You know that shooting at
Monroeville Mall Saturday night, Mr. Singer? I was there!”
I swallowed. “My gosh,
Paulette. Are you okay?”
She acts street smart and
unbreakable, but I can still see the little girl in her. She’s only thirteen.
She slowed down and told us
what happened; a story framed as bragging but really a desperate plea for
safety and love.
She went to the mall with
her mother. When they separated so she could go to the restroom, the gunfire
began. She ran out and Mom was gone. She was ushered into a nearby store where
the customers were kept in lockdown. She stayed there until the police cleared
the mall, and it was safe to find her mother and go home.
A seventeen-year-old boy
had gunned down
three people. One was his target. The others were bystanders—parents
who had gotten in the way. Now they were all in the hospital, two in critical
condition.
And my student—my
beautiful, precious, pain-in-the-butt, braggadocious, darling little child—was
stuck in the mix.
I could imagine how scared
she must have been separated from her mother, hiding with strangers as police
swept the shops, food court, and children’s play center.
Here she was telling the
class her story and getting more upset with each word.
I gave her a meaningful
look and told her we’d talk more later. Then I began class.
But I kept my eye on her.
Was that relief I saw as the talk turned from bullets and bloodshed to similes
and metaphors? Did the flush leave her cheeks as we crafted multi-paragraph
theses? I hope so.
I think I know her pretty
well by now. She’s been mine for two years—in both 7th and 8th grades. I even
taught her older brother when he was in middle school.
I know she’s rarely going
to do her homework—and if she does, it will be finished in the last
twenty minutes. I know she’d rather be out playing volleyball or
cheerleading than in school writing or reading. I know when she’s secure and
when she’s scared.
And I know that today’s
lesson will be a breeze for her. So why not put her in her comfort zone, show
her things haven’t changed, she’s still the same person, she can still do
this—nothing is different?
At least, that was the
plan.
As any experienced public
school teacher knows, you have to satisfy a person’s basic needs before you
have any chance at teaching them something new. Psychologist Abraham Maslow’s
Hierarchy of Needs is always at the back of mind.
Students must have their
physical needs met first—be fed, have a full night’s rest, etc. Then they have
to feel safe, loved, and esteemed before they can reach their potentials.
But meeting these needs is
a daily challenge. Our students come to us with a wealth of traumas and we’re
given a poverty of resources to deal with them.
How many times have I given
a child breakfast or bought a lunch? How many kids were given second-hand
clothes or books? How many hours have I spent before or after school just
listening to a tearful child pour out his heart?
Let me be clear. I don’t
mind.
Not one bit.
It’s one of the reasons I
became a teacher. I want to be there for these kids. I want to
be someone they can come to when they need help. It’s important to me.
But what I do mind is doing
this alone. And then being blamed for not healing all the years of accumulated
hurt.
Because that’s exactly
what’s expected of teachers these days. Fix this insurmountable problem with
few tools and if you can’t, it’s your fault.
I didn’t shoot up the mall.
I didn’t pass the laws that make it so easy for kids to get a hold of a gun. I
didn’t pass the laws that allow such rampant income inequality and the
perpetuation of crippling poverty that more than half
of our nation’s public school children live with every day. And
I sure didn’t slash public
school budgets while wealthy corporations got a tax holiday.
But when society’s evils
are visited on our innocent children, I’m expected to handle it alone. And if I
can’t solve it all by myself, I should be fired.
That is where I take
umbrage.
The issue is violence but
not all of it comes at the end of a gun.
Keeping public schools
defunded and dysfunctional is also a form of violence. Promoting
privatization and competition when kids really just need
resources is also cruelty. Pretending that standardized curriculum and tests
are a Civil Right is also savagery.
It’s called class warfare.
Its most prominent victims are children. Its most active soldiers are teachers.
And we’re on the front lines every day.
When the bell rang to end
class, Paulette stopped by my desk.
I looked up at her ready to
give whatever support I could. It was my lunch break, but I was willing to skip
it and just talk. I’d get the guidance counselor. I’d call home. Whatever she
needed.
But none of it was
necessary.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She gave me a big
smile and a deep breath.
I returned it.
Today would be alright.
Tomorrow? We’ll meet that together.
But we sure could use some
help.
NOTE: Names
and other minor details may have been changed to preserve anonymity.
Read more from Public School Shakedown and Steven Singer.
from The Progressive.
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