You are right–I am a good advocate for my daughter. You are right–we won an award for “Whole Child Distinguished School.” You are right–everyone wants a schedule change.
Did we win an award for taking away personal days? For asking teachers to cover classes during the sub shortage? For being advocates day in, day out, for those who don’t have the voices to advocate for themselves? For asking for empathy?
But when someone sends a cry for help, you don’t need to tell me the rules of the school. I know how school works. I never really left–high school graduation, college, straight into teaching. This is not the second-year Teach-for-America, nothing-could-ever-be-wrong Teacher Next Door.
This is me. This is my daughter. This is a teacher who knew the real struggles. Because I told her. This is a teacher who literally slammed the door on her the next day.
Who will have her in class for the next two years.
The teacher of a class whose entire PURPOSE is to support the Whole Child! A class where a teacher forces her ever-fragile, too-afraid-to-join-a-club children to LEAVE and LOCKS THE DOOR.
I love your little motto in your signature line. I love that I can’t say anything else about this. I love that no one ever really listens when someone asks for help, even when the solution is so simple that it’s literally a click of a button.
Because you, just like me? Mother of many, stressed by them all? You’re not a whole person. You’re as cracked as all of us, a partial person, empty instead of empathic, cold instead of warm, lost instead of focused.
I am a partial person, too. If only your part could see my part, maybe we could be a whole person. And maybe we could raise whole children.
And maybe we could understand each other. But instead, I have to leave my part here. Broken sentences, shattered trust, and only a tiny piece of a human being.